LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

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AUTHORS  AT  HOME 


PERSONAL  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES  OF 
WELL-KNOWN  AMERICAN  WRITERS 


EDITED    BY 

J.   L.  &  J.  B.  GILDER 


NEW  YORK 

A.    WESSELS    COMPANY 

1902 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 


THE  sketches  of  authors  at  home  in  this  book 
have  as  their  special  value  the  fact  that  the  writer 
of  each  article  was  selected  for  the  purpose  by  the 
author  himself.  The  sketches  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  T/u:  Critic,  where  they  attracted  partic 
ular  attention  by  virtue  of  their  authenticity,  as 
well  as  for  the  names  of  the  subjects  and  the  writ 
ers. 

The  Canadian  border  has  been  crossed  in  the 
article  on  Prof.  Goldwin  Smith ;  but  with  this  ex 
ception  the  series  treats  only  of  native  American 
writers  who  make  their  home  on  this  side  of  the 
Atlantic.  Since  these  sketches  were  written, 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  authors  in 
the  list  have  died,  all  of  them  meeting  natural 
deaths,  with  one  exception,  Mr.  Paul  Leicester 
Ford.  J.  L.  G. 

NEW  YORK,  June,  1902. 


21 


CONTENTS 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 
GEORGE  BANCROFT. 
GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 
JOHN  BURROUGHS. 
GEORGE  W.  CABLE. 
S.  L.  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN). 
GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS.  . 
DR.  EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  . 
EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE.   . 
JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS.    . 
PROF.  J.  A.  HARRISON. 

COL.  JOHN  HAY 

COL.  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 
DR.  O.  W.  HOLMES. 
JULIA  WARD  HOWE.      . 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS.  . 
CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.     . 
DONALD     G.     MITCHELL     (IK 

MARVEL) 

FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 
PROF.  GOLDWIN  SMITH. 
EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  . 
RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.     . 
HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 
CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 

WALT  WHITMAN 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.    . 
MRS.  MARGARET  DELANO.  . 
F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 
PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 


By  William  H.  Bishop.          .  i 

B.  G.  Lovejoy.    ...  17 

George  P.  Lathrop.          .  29 

Roger  Riordan.         .       .  39 

/.  K.  Wetherill.         .       .  49 

Chas.  Hopkins  Clark.       .  6r 

George  P.  Lathrop.  .       .  73 

O.  C.  Auringer.       .        .  83 

William  Sloane  Kennedy.  97 

Erastus  Brainerd.    .        .  in 

W.  M.  Baskervill.     .       .  125 

B.  G.  Lovejoy.   ...  135 

George  Willis  Cooke.         .  147 

Alice  Wellington  Rollins.  163 

Maude  Howe.     .       .       .  181 

William  H.  Bishop.          .  193 

Elizabeth  Robins  Pennell.  211 

George  E.  Woodberry.     .  227 

Henry  H.  Beers.       .       .  237 

Charles  H.  Farnham.     .  253 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts.     .  263 

Anna  Bowman  Dodd.     .  273 

Joseph  B.  Gilder.       .       .  291 

Rev.  Joseph  H.  Twichell.  313 

Rev.  Joseph  H.  Twichell.  323 

George  Selwyn.          .        .  333 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford.  343 

Lucia  Purdy.     ...  355 

William  Bond.          .       .  369 

Lindsay  Swift.   .       .        .  385 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

ON    BEACON    HILL,    AND    ROUND   IT. 

Beacon  Hill  is  the  great  pyramid,  or  horn  of 
dominion,  as  it  were,  of  Boston's  most  solid  re 
spectability  of  the  older  sort.  Half-way  up  Beacon 
Hill,  Aldrich  is  to  be  met  with  at  the  office  of 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  of  which  he  has  been  the 
editor  since  1881.  The  publishers  of  this  mag 
azine  have  established  its  headquarters,  together 
with  their  general  business,  in  the  old  Quincy 
mansion,  at  No.  4  Park  Street,  which  they  have 
had  pleasantly  remodeled  for  their  purposes. 
Close  by,  on  the  steep  slope,  is  the  Union  Club  ; 
across  the  street  the  long,  shaded  stretch  of  Boston 
Common ;  and  above  it  is  the  State  House,  pre 
siding  over  the  quarter,  with  its  imposing  golden 
dome  half  hidden  amid  the  greenery.  The  editor's 
office  is  secluded,  small,  neat,  and  looks  down  into 
a  quiet  old  graveyard,  like  those  of  St.  Paul's  and 
Trinity  in  New  York.  It  seems  a  place  strictly 
adapted  to  business,  and  is  cut  off  from  the  outer 
world  even  by  so  much  of  a  means  of  communi 
cation  as  a  speaking-tube.  There  was  formerly  a 
speaking-tube,  but  an  importunate  visitor  had  his 

3 


4  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

ear  to  it,  and  received  a  somewhat  hasty  message 
intended  only  in  confidence  for  the  call-boy,  and 
it  was  abolished.  "  Imagine  the  feelings  of  a  sen 
sitive  man — my  feelings,  of  course — on  such  an 
occasion,"  says  the  editor  with  characteristic 
drollery.  "  I  flew  at  the  tube,  plugged  it  up  with 
a  cork,  and  drove  that  in  with  a  poker  !  "  Among 
the  few  small  objects  that  can  be  called  ornament 
scattered  about  is  remarked  a  photograph  of  a 
severely  classic  doorway,  which  might  have  be 
longed  to  some  famous  monument  of  antiquity. 
It  has  a  funereal  look,  to  tell  the  truth,  but  it 
proves  to  be  nothing  less  than  the  doorway  of  the 
residence  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  himself,  in 
Mt.  Vernon  Street.  Like  one  of  his  own  para 
doxes,  it  has  a  very  different  aspect  when  put 
amid  its  proper  surroundings. 

Mt.  Vernon  Street  crosses  the  topmost  height 
of  Beacon  Hill.  Parallel  to  the  famed  thor 
oughfare  of  Beacon  Street,  it  is  like  a  more 
retired  military  line  that  has  the  compensation 
for  its  retirement  of  being  spared  the  active 
brunt  of  service.  A  very  few  minutes'  climb 
from  the  office  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly  suf 
fices  to  reach  it.  Precisely  at  that  portion  of  it 
where  the  pretty  grass-plots  begin,  to  the  houses 
on  the  upper  side,  is  the  attractive,  stately  man 
sion  of  an  elder  generation,  in  which  Aldrich  has 
taken  up  his  abode.  He  bought  it,  some  years 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  5 

ago,  of  Dr.  Bigelow,  a  well-known  name  in  Boston, 
and  made  it  his  own.  It  is  one  of  a  block,  and  is 
of  red  brick,  four  windows  (and  perhaps  thirty 
feet)  wide,  and  four  tall  stories  in  height,  with  a 
story  of  dormers  above  that.  The  classic  door 
way  of  white  marble,  solidly  built,  after  the  honest 
fashion  of  its  time,  is  but  a  small  detail  after  all 
in  such  an  amplitude  of  fagade,  and  melts  easily 
into  place  as  part  of  a  genial  whole.  The  quarter, 
its  sidewalks  and  all,  is  chiefly  of  old  red  brick, 
tempered  with  the  green  of  grass-plots,  shrubs,  and 
climbing  vines.  It  has  a  pervading  air  of  anti 
quity,  and  it  quaintly  suggests  a  bit  of  Chester  or 
Coventry.  The  neighbors  are,  on  the  one  hand, 
Charles  Francis  Adams ;  on  the  other,  Bancroft, 
son  of  the  historian  ;  while,  diagonally  across  the 
way,  is  a  lady  who  is,  by  popular  rumor,  the 
richest  woman  in  New  England.  The  rooms  of 
the  house  take  a  pleasing  irregularity  from  the 
partial  curvature  of  the  walls,  front  and  rear. 
They  are  all  spacious,  above-stairs  as  well  as 
below.  The  "  hall  bedroom,"  of  modern  progress, 
was  hardly  invented  in  its  time.  A  platform  and 
steps  at  one  side  of  the  hall,  on  entering  (they 
clear  a  small  alley  to  the  rear)  have  a  sort  of  altar- 
like  aspect.  The  owner  or  his  books  might  some 
time  be  apotheosized  there,  at  need,  amid  candles 
and  flowers.  Aldrich  has  been  fortunate  in  his 
marriage  as  in  so  many  other  ways.  His  family 


6  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

consists  of  a  congenial  and  accomplished  wife, 
and  "  the  twins,"  not  unknown  to  literature.  The 
most  pervading  trait  of  the  interior  is  a  sense  of 
a  discriminating  judgment  and  ardor  in  household 
decoration.  Both  husband  and  wife  share  this 
taste,  and  together  they  have  filled  this  abode  and 
their  two  country  houses  with  ample  evidence  of 
it,  and  with  rare  and  taking  objects  brought  from 
a  wide  circle  of  travel  and  research.  Tribute 
should  be  paid  to  the  quietness  of  tone,  the  air 
of  comfort,  in  the  whole.  The  collections  are  not 
made  an  end  in  themselves,  but  are  parts  of  a 
harmonious  interior.  Several  stones  are  carpeted 
alike,  in  a  soft,  low-toned  hue.  In  days  of  pro 
fessional  decorators  who  throw  together  all  the 
hues  of  the  kaleidoscope,  and  none  in  a  patch 
larger  than  your  hand,  and  held  upon  these,  brass, 
ebony,  stamped  leather,  marquetry,  enamels  and 
bottle-glass,  in  a  kind  of  chaotic  pudding — in  these 
days  such  an  exceptional  reserve  as  is  here  mani 
fest  seems  little  less  than  a  matter  of  notable  per 
sonal  daring.  The  furniture  is  of  the  Colonial 
time,  with  a  touch  of  the  First  Empire,  and  each 
piece  has  its  own  history.  There  is  a  collection 
of  curious  old  mirrors.  In  a  variety  of  old  glazed 
closets  and  pantries  in  the  dining-room  (behind  a 
fine  reception-room,  on  the  entrance  floor),  Mrs. 
Aldrich  shows  a  rare  collection  of  lovely  china, 
both  for  use  and  ornament. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  7 

This  is  a  dining-room  that  has  entertained  many 
a  distinguished  guest ;  and  the  little  dinners,  to 
which  invitations  are  rarely  refused  by  the  favored 
ones,  are  said  to  be  almost  as  easy  to  give  as  en 
joyable  to  take  part  in.  The  agreeable  host,  who 
has  always  allied  himself  much  with  artists,  has 
on  occasion  dined  the  New  York  Tile  Club. 
Again,  his  occupation  as  editor  of  The  Atlantic 
makes  it  often  his  duty  or  privilege  to  bring  home 
strangers- of  note  who  drop  down  upon  him  from 
afar.  The  unexpected  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  things 
consistently  to  be  looked  for  in  Aldrich.  On 
the  evenings  of  the  week  when  he  is  not  en 
tertaining,  he  is  very  apt  to  be  dining  out  him 
self.  He  is  a  social  genius,  and  understands  the 
arts  of  good  fellowship.  Good  things  abound 
even  more,  if  possible,  in  his  talk  than  in  his 
writings.  Every  acquaintance  of  his  will  give 
you  a  list  of  happy  scintillations  of  his  wit 
and  humor.  There  is  nothing  of  the  recluse 
by  nature  in  Aldrich;  nothing,  either,  of  the 
conventional  cut  of  poet  or  sage  in  his  aspect. 
His  looks  might  somewhat  astonish  those — as  the 
guileless  are  so  often  astonished  in  this  way — who 
had  preconceived  ideas  of  him  from  the  delicate 
refinement,  the  exquisite  perfection  of  finish,  of 
his  verse.  As  I  saw  him  come  in  the  other  day 
from  Lynn  in  a  heavy,  serviceable  reefing-jacket, 
adapted  to  the  variable  summer  climate  of  that 


8  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

point,  he  had  much  more  the  air  of  athlete  than 
poet.  I 'shall  not  enter  upon  the  abstruse  cal 
culation  of  what  age  a  man  may  now  have  who 
was  born  in  1837,  but  in  looks,  manners,  habits, 
Aldrich  distinctly  belongs  to  the  school  of  the 
younger  men.  He  is  now  somewhat  thickset ;  he 
is  blond,  and  of  middle  height.  He  has  features 
that  lend  themselves  easily  to  the  humorous 
play  of  his  fancy.  The  ends  of  his  mustache, 
pointed  somewhat  in  the  French  manner,  seem 
to  accentuate  with  a  certain  fitness  and  chic  the 
quips  and  cranks  which  so  often  issue  from  be 
neath  it.  Mentally,  Aldrich  seems  Yankee,  crossed 
with  the  Frenchman.  In  the  matter  of  literary 
finish,  he  is  refined  by  fastidiousness  of  taste  to 
the  last  degree.  He  is  a  man  of  strong  likes  and 
dislikes  ;  it  would  sometimes  seem  fair  almost  to 
call  them  prejudices.  In  his  work  he  has  scarcely 
any  morbid  side.  He  is  the  celebrator  of  every 
thing  bright  and  charming,  of  things  opalescent 
and  rainbow-hued,  of  pretty  women,  roses,  jewels, 
humming-bird  and  oriole,  of  the  blue  sky  and  sea 
and  the  daintiest  romance  of  the  daintiest  spots 
of  foreign  climes.  If  man  invented  the  arts  to 
please, — as  can  hardly  be  denied, — few  can  be 
called  more  truly  in  the  vein  of  art  than  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich. 

From  the  rear  window  of  the  dining-room  one 
looks  out  into  a  little  court-yard,  more  like  a  bit 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  9 

of  Chester  than  ever.  The  building  lot  runs  quite 
through  to  Pinckney  Street,  and  is  closed  in  on 
the  further  side  by  an  odd  little  house  of  red 
brick,  which  is  rented  as  a  bachelor  apartment. 
It  was  formerly  a  petty  shop,  until  Aldrich  be 
thought  him  both  to  transform  it  thus  into  a  de 
sirable  adjunct,  and  to  make  it  pay  a  considerable 
part  of  the  taxes.  It  is  like  a  dwelling  out  of  a 
pantomime.  One  would  hardly  be  surprised  to 
see  Humpty  Dumpty  dive  into  or  out  of  it  at  any 
moment.  Pinckney  Street  might  have  a  chapter 
to  itself.  Narrower,  modester,  and  at  a  further 
remove  still  from  the  front  than  Mt.  Vernon 
Street,  it  begins  to  be  invaded  now  by  quiet 
lodging-houses,  but  still  retains  its  quaintness 
and  a  high  order  of  respectability.  A  bright 
glimpse  of  the  sea  is  had  at  the  end  of  its  con 
tracted  down-hill  perspective,  over  Charles  Street. 
Aldrich  formerly  lived  in  Pinckney  Street,  then 
in  Charles  Street,  and  thence  removed  to  his  pres 
ent  abode.  But,  if  it  be  a  question  of  view,  we 
must  ascend  rather  the  high,  winding  staircase  to 
the  large  cupola,  with  railed-in  platform,  set  upon 
the  steep  roof.  The  ground  falls  away  hence  on 
every  side  and  all  of  undulating,  much-varied  Bos 
ton  is  visible.  Mark  Twain  has  pronounced  the 
prospect  from  here  at  night,  with  the  electric 
lights  glimmering  in  the  leafy  Common  and  the 
myriad  of  others  round  about,  as  one  of  the  most 


io  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

impressive  within  his  wide  experience.  The 
golden  dome  of  the  State  House  rears  its  bulk 
aloft,  close  at  hand.  Up  one  flight  from  the  en 
trance  are  the  two  principal  drawing-rooms  of  the 
house,  large  and  handsome.  The  most  conspic 
uous  objects  on  the  walls  of  these  are  a  few  un 
known  old  masters  after  the  style  of  Fra  Angelico 
— trophies  of  travel.  There  are  also  a  remarkable 
pair  of  figures  in  Venetian  wood-carving,  nearly 
life-size.  The  pictures  are,  for  the  rest,  chiefly 
original  sketches  done  for  illustration  of  the 
author's  books  by  the  talented  younger  American 
artists. 

On  the  same  floor  is  the  library,  a  modest-sized 
room,  made  to  seem  smaller  than  it  is  through 
being  compactly  filled  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  a 
collection  of  three  thousand  books.  The  special 
ties  chiefly  observed  in  its  composition  are  Amer 
icana  and  first  editions.  Aldrich  would  disclaim 
any  very  ambitious  design,  but  there  are  volumes 
here  which  might  tempt  the  cupidity  of  the  most 
finished  book-fancier,  and  of  a  kind  that  bring 
liberal  sums  in  market.  Something  artistic  in  the 
form  has  generally  guided  the  choice,  as  for  in 
stance  Voltaire's  "  La  Pucelle,"  and  the  "  Contes 
Moraux"  of  Marmontel,  containing  all  the  quaint 
early  plates.  You  take  down  from  the  shelves  ex 
amples  of  Aldrich's  own  works  done  into  several 
languages.  Here  is  his  "  Queen  of  Sheba  "  in 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH,  n 

Spanish,  Valencia,  1879.  Here  is  the  treasure 
which  perhaps  he  would  hardly  exchange  against 
any  other — the  autograph  letter  of  Hawthorne 
warmly  praising  his  early  poems, — saying,  among 
other  things,  that  some  of  them  seem  almost  too 
delicate  even  to  be  breathed  upon.  Never  did  a 
young  writer  receive  more  intelligent  and  sympa 
thetic  recognition  from  a  greater  source.  Among 
the  curiosities  of  the  shelves  in  yet  another  way  is 
a  gift  copy  of  the  early  poems  of  Fitz-Greene 
Halleck  to  Catherine  Sedgwick.  On  the  title- 
page  is  found  a  patronizing  line  of  memorandum 
from  that  minor  celebrity  in  American  letters, 
reading  "  Mr.  Halleck,  the  author  of  this  book,  is 
a  resident  of  New  York."  Aldrich  has  never  been 
subjected  to  the  severe  pecuniary  straits  which 
befall  so  many  literary  men.  He  has  undergone 
in  his  time,  however,  sufficient  pressure  to  acquaint 
him  with  that  side  of  life  at  least  as  an  experience, 
to  give  him  a  proper  appreciation  no  doubt  of  his 
ample  worldly  comfort,  and  also  to  furnish  the 
stimulus  for  the  development  of  his  early  powers. 
He  had  prepared,  in  his  native  town  of  Ports 
mouth,  to  enter  Harvard  College,  but,  his  father 
dying,  he  became  a  clerk  instead  in  the  commis 
sion  house  of  a  rich  uncle  in  New  York.  He  had 
his  own  way  to  make  in  the  literary  world ;  he  be 
gan  at  the  very  foot  of  the  ladder,  with  fugitive 
contributions,  and  by  degrees  identified  himself 


1 2  THOMA  S  BAILE  Y  ALDRICH. 

with  the  newspapers  and  magazines  of  the  day. 
He  even  saw  something  of  Bohemian  life,  a 
knowledge  of  which  is  no  undesirable  element  in 
one  who  is  to  be  a  man  of  the  world.  He  dined 
at  Pfaffs,  and  was  one  of  a  coterie  which  circled 
around  The  Saturday  Press  and  the  brilliant,  er 
ratic  Henry  D.  Clapp.  I  recollect  passing  with 
him  the  office  of  this  defunct  journal  in  Frankfort 
Street,  on  the  occasion  when  he  had  come  to 
New  York  to  be  the  recipient  of  a  complimentary 
breakfast  at  Delmonico's  in  honor  of  his  induction 
into  the  editorship  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  He 
looked  with  interest  at  the  dingy  quarters  com 
memorating  so  very  different  a  phase  of  his  life, 
and  repeated  to  me  the  valedictory  address  of  the 
paper:  "This  paper  is  discontinued  for  want  of 
funds,  which,  by  a  coincidence,  is  precisely  the 
reason  for  which  it  was  started." 

I  have  described  Aldrich's  town  house.  He 
passes  much  of  his  time  at  Ponkapog,  twelve 
miles  away  behind  the  Blue  Hills,  and  at  Lynn,  on 
the  sea-coast.  "  After  its  black  bass  and  wild 
duck  and  teal,"  says  our  author  in  one  of  his 
charming  essays,  "  solitude  is  the  chief  staple  of 
Ponkapog.  .  .  .  The  nearest  railway  station 
(Heaven  be  praised  !)  is  two  miles  distant,  and  the 
seclusion  is  without  a  flaw.  Ponkapog  has  one 
mail  a  day ;  two  mails  a  day  would  render  the 
place  uninhabitable."  He  took  a  large  old  farm- 


THOMA S  BAILE  Y  ALDRICH.  1 3 

house  in  the  secluded  place,  remodeled  it,  ar 
ranged  for  himself  an  attractive  working  study, 
and,  used  to  men  and  cities  though  he  was,  for  a 
period  made  this  exclusively  his  home.  His  lead 
ing  motive  was  the  health  of  his  boys,  who  needed 
an  out-of-door  life.  Ponkapog  owes  him  a  debt 
of  gratitude  for  spreading  its  name  abroad.  Un 
til  the  publication  of  his  entertaining  book  of 
travel  sketches,  "  From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth,"  it 
must  have  been  wholly  unheard  of,  and  even  then 
I,  for  one,  can  recollect  feeling  that  the  appella 
tion  was  so  ingenious  as  to  be  probably  fictitious. 
With  a  continuity  that  speaks  strongly  in  its 
favor,  Aldrich  has  passed  the  summers  at  Lynn 
for  seventeen  years.  From  these  must  be  excepted, 
however,  the  summers  of  his  jaunts  to  Europe, 
which  are  rather  frequent.  The  latest  of  these  took 
him  to  the  Russian  fair  at  Nijni  Novgorod.  In 
another,  perhaps  unlike  any  other  traveler,  he 
passed  a  "day  [and  a  day  only]  in  Africa."  At 
Lynn,  he  has  lived,  in  different  villas,  all  along 
the  breezy  Ocean  Road.  This  is  a  street  worthy 
of  its  name,  and  it  has  a  certain  flavor  of  Newport, 
being  a  little  remote  from  the  central  bustle  of 
the  great  shoe-manufacturing  mart  to  which  it  be 
longs.  Others  will  quote  a  list  of  varied  advantages 
for  the  site  ;  Aldrich  will  be  apt  to  tell  you  he  likes 
it  for  its  nearness  to  the  railway  station.  The  pres 
ent  house,  of  which  he  has  taken  a  long  lease,  is  a 


14  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

large  square  wooden  villa,  painted  red.  It  stands 
just  in  the  edge  of  a  little  indentation  known  as 
Deer  Cove.  "  After  me,  probably — who  knows  ?  " 
says  the  humorous  host,  who  is  not  at  all  afraid 
of  a  bit  of  the  common  vernacular.  Nahant, 
Little  Nahant  and  minor  resorts  are  in  the 
view  in  front ;  Swampscott  is  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  away,  at  the  left,  and  Marblehead  at  no 
great  distance  beyond  that.  The  feature  of  the 
water  view  is  the  bold  little  reef  of  Egg  Rock, 
with  three  white  dots  of  habitations  on  its  back. 
"  Egg  Rock  is  exactly  opposite  everywhere.  I 
recollect  once  trying  to  find  some  place  to  which 
it  was  not  opposite,  just  as  in  childhood  I  tried 
once  to  walk  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  moon. 
In  this  latter  case  I  suppose  I  must  have  walked 
fully  two  miles."  So  my  host  describes  his  pecu 
liar  experience  with  it. 

The  main  tide  of  fashion  sets  rather  towards 
Beverly  Farms  and  Manchester  than  in  this  direc 
tion.  The  family  lead,  gladly,  a  quiet  life,  little 
disturbed  by  a  bustle  of  visits.  They  depend 
chiefly  for  society  upon  the  guests  they  bring 
down  with  them.  They  find  plenty  of  occupation 
and  interest,  too,  in  caring  for  their  boys.  These 
are  twins,  as  I  have  said,  and  so  much  twins  as  to 
be  with  difficulty  distinguished  apart.  I  was  in 
terested  to  know  if  they  began  to  develop  the 
literary  faculty.  '  Heaven  forbid ! '  said  their 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDR1CH.  15 

father  in  comic  horror.  Aldrich's  study  at  Lynn 
is  a  modest  upper  room,  in  a  wing,  with  a  plain 
gray  cartridge-paper  on  the  walls,  no  pictures,  and 
nothing  to  conspire  with  a  flagging  attention  in  its 
wanderings.  One's  first  impulse,  on  looking  up 
from  the  little  writing-table  in  the  center  of  the 
floor,  would  be  to  cast  his  eyes  out  of  the  single 
window,  where  Egg  Rock,  in  a  bit  of  blue  sea,  is 
again  visible.  This  window  should  be  an  inspir 
ing  influence,  letting  in  its  illumination  upon  the 
fabrics  of  the  heated  brain ;  and  not  in  the  gentler 
mood  alone,  for  tragedy  is  often  abroad  there. 
The  fog  shrouds  Egg  Rock,  then  rolls  in  and  en 
velopes  the  universe  under  its  stealthy  domination; 
again,  the  gale  spatters  the  brine  upon  the  window- 
panes,  and  beats  and  roars  about  the  house  as  it 
might  on  the  light  at  Montauk. 

As  an  editor,  Aldrich  is  methodical.  He  goes 
early  in  the  day  to  the  office  of  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  and  there  writes  his  letters,  examines 
his  manuscripts,  and  sees  (or  does  not  see)  his 
visitors  upon  a  regular  system.  As  to  his  per 
sonal  habit  of  writing  his  literature,  he  has  none — 
at  least  no  times  and  seasons.  He  waits  for  the 
mood,  and  defends  this  practice  as  the  best,  or, 
at  least  for  him,  almost  the  only  one  possible. 
This  has  to  do,  no  doubt,  with  the  small  volume 
of  his  writings,  smaller  comparatively  than  that 
of  most  of  his  contemporaries.  This  result  is 


1 6  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

perhaps  contributed  to  also  by  the  easy  circum 
stances  of  his  life,  and  yet  more  by  his  devotion 
to  extreme  literary  finish.  Experienced  though 
he  is,  and  successful  though  he  is,  no  manuscript 
leaves  his  hands  to  be  printed  till  he  has  made  at 
least  three  distinct  and  amended  drafts  of  it.  He 
could  never  have  been  a  newspaper  man  ;  the 
merest  paragraph  would  have  received  the  same 
care,  and  in  the  newspaper  such  painstaking  is 
ruinous.  His  was  a  talent  that  had  to  succeed  in 
the  front  rank  or  not  at  all.  He  has  produced 
little  of  late,  far  too  little  to  meet  the  demands 
of  the  audience  of  eager  admirers  he  has  created. 
So  delightful  a  pen,  so  droll  and  original  a  fancy, 
so  charming  a  muse,  we  can  ill  afford  to  spare. 
Yet  that  mysterious  genius  that  goes  about  col 
lecting  material  for  the  archives  of  permanent 
fame  can  have  but  little  to  dismiss  from  a  total 
so  small  and  a  performance  so  choice. 

WILLIAM  HENRY  BISHOP. 

[After  ten  years  as  editor  of  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Mr.  Aldrich  resigned  his  position,  and 
has  since  that  time  been  living  in  Boston.  In 
1893  he  published  "  An  Old  Town  by  the  Sea," 
and  two  years  later  "  Unguarded  Gates,  and  Other 
Poems." — EDITORS.  ] 


GEORGE  BANCROFT 


GEORGE  BANCROFT 

AT    WASHINGTON 

Mr.  Bancroft,  the  historian,  was  "  at  home " 
beneath  every  roof-tree,  beside  every  fireside, 
where  books  are  household  gods.  Mr.  Bancroft, 
the  octogenarian,  who  came  into  the  world  hand 
in  hand  with  the  Nineteenth  Century,  was  espe 
cially  at  home  at  the  capital  of  the  country  whose 
history  was  to  him  a  labor  of  love  and  the  absorb 
ing  occupation  of  a  lifetime.  For  although  his 
career  was  one  of  active  participation  in  public 
affairs,  his  pursuits  ran  parallel  with  his  literary 
work.  He  was  contributing  to  the  making  of  one 
period  of  a  United  States  history  while  his  pen 
was  engaged  in  writing  of  other  periods.  If  self- 
gratulation  is  ever  permitted  to  authors,  Mr.  Ban 
croft  must  have  more  than  once  exclaimed,  "  The 
lines  have  fallen  to  me  in  pleasant  places !  "  as  he 
availed  himself  of  opportunities  which  only  an  am 
bassador  could  secure  and  a  scholar  improve. 

It  is  the  prose- Homer  of  our  Republic  whom 
it  is  my  privilege  to  present  to  the  readers  of  this 
sketch.  Picture  to  yourself  a  venerable  man,  of 

19 


20  GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

medium  height,  slender  figure,  erect  bearing ; 
with  lofty  brow  thinned,  but  not  stripped,  of  its 
silvery  locks ;  a  full,  snowy  beard  adding  to  his 
patriarchal  appearance;  bluish  gray  eyes,  which 
neither  use  nor  time  has  deprived  of  brightness; 
a  large  nose  of  Roman  type,  such  as  I  have  some 
where  read  or  heard  that  the  first  Napoleon  re 
garded  as  the  sign  of  latent  force  ;  "  small  white 
hands,"  which  Ali  Pasha  assured  Byron  were  the 
marks  by  which  he  recognized  the  poet  to  be  "a 
man  of  birth  "; — let  your  imagination  combine 
these  details,  and  you  have  a  sketch  for  the 
historian's  portrait.  The  frame  is  a  medium- 
sized  room  of  good,  high  pitch.  In  the  center  is 
a  rectangular  table  covered  with  books,  pamphlets 
and  other  indications  of  a  literary  life.  Shelving 
reaches  to  the  ceiling,  and  every  fraction  of  space 
is  occupied  by  volumes  of  all  sizes,  from  folio  to 
duodecimo  ;  a  door  on  the  left  opens  into  a  room 
which  is  also  full  to  overflowing  with  the  valuable 
collections  of  a  lifetime  ;  and  further  on  is  yet 
another  apartment  equally  crowded  with  the 
historian's  dumb  servants,  companions,  and 
friends ;  while  rooms  and  nooks  elsewhere  have 
yielded  to  Literature's  rights  of  squatter  sove 
reignty.  In  the  Republic  of  Letters,  all  books 
are  citizens,  and  one  is  as  good  as  another  in  the 
eyes  of  the  maid-servant  who  kindles  the  break 
fast-room  fire,  save  perhaps  the  vellum  Plautus  or 


GEORGE  BANCROFT.  21 

illuminated  missal.  But  men  are  known  not  only 
by  the  society  they  keep,  but  by  the  books  which 
surround  them.  Just  as  there  are  "  books  which 
are  no  books,"  so  are  there  libraries  which  are  no 
libraries.  But  a  library  selected  by  a  scholar  who 
was  a  book-hunter  in  European  fields,  who  spared 
neither  time,  money,  labor,  nor  any  available  agency 
in  his  collection,  must  be  rich  in  literary  treasures, 
particularly  those  bearing  upon  his  specialty ;  and 
such  was  Mr.  Bancroft's  library.  The  facilities 
which  personal  popularity,  the  fraternal  spirit  of 
literary  men,  and  the  courtesy  of  official  relations 
afford,  were  employed  by  Mr.  Bancroft  when  am 
bassador  in  procuring  authentic  copies  of  invalua 
ble  writings  and  state-papers  bearing  immediately 
or  remotely  on  the  history  of  the  American  Colo 
nies  and  Republic.  To  these  facilities,  and  his 
own  indefatigable  industry  and  perseverance,  is 
due  the  priceless  collection  of  manuscripts  which, 
copied  in  a  large  and  legible  handwriting,  well- 
bound  and  systematically  classified,  adorned  his 
shelves.  Of  the  printed  volumes,  not  the  least 
precious  was  a  copy  of  "  Don  Juan,"  presented  to 
him  with  the  author's  compliments,  sixty-six  years 
ago. 

Mr.  Bancroft's  home  was  a  commodious  double 
house,  with  brown-stone  front,  plain  and  solid- 
looking,  which  was,  before  the  War,  the  winter 
residence  of  a  wealthy  Maryland  family.  Diag- 


22  GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

onally  opposite,  at  the  corner  of  the  intersecting 
streets,  is  the  "  Decatur  House,"  whither  the  gal 
lant  sailor  was  borne  after  his  duel  with  Commo 
dore  Barren,  and  where  he  died  after  lingering  in 
agony.  Within  a  stone's  throw  is  the  White 
House ;  and  I  would  say  that  the  historian  lived 
in  the  centre  of  Washington's  Belgravia,  had  not 
the  British  Minister's  residence,  with  an  at 
traction  stronger  than  centripetal,  drawn  around 
it  a  social  colony  whose  claims  must  be  at  least 
debated  before  judgment  is  pronounced.  In 
front  of  Mr.  Bancroft's  house  is  a  small  court 
yard  in  which,  in  spring-time,  beds  of  hyacinths 
blooming  in  sweet  and  close  communion  show 
his  love  of  flowers.  When  conversing  with  the  his 
torian,  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  the  retrospect 
of  a  life  so  full  of  interest,  for  imagination  per 
sists  in  picturing  the  boyish  graduate  of  Harvard  ; 
the  ambitious  student  at  Gottingen  and  Berlin  ; 
the  inquisitive  and  ever-acquiring  traveler ;  the 
pupil  returned  to  the  bosom  of  his  Alma  Mater 
and  promoted  to  a  Fellowship  with  her  Faculty — 
preacher,  teacher,  poet  and  translator,  before  his 
calling  and  election  as  his  country's  historian  was 
sure  ;  his  entrance  into  the  arena  of  politics  and 
rapid  advance  to  the  line  of  leadership  ;  his  mem 
bership  in  Mr.  Folk's  Cabinet;  his  subsequent 
Mission  to  England  ;  his  much  later  Mission  to 
Berlin,  where  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  from 


GEORGE  BANCROFT.  23 

Bismarck  a  recognition  of  the  "American  doc 
trine  "  that  naturalization  is  expatriation,  and 
negotiated  a  treaty  which  endeared  him  to  the 
German-American  heart,  since  the  Fatherland 
may  now  be  visited  without  the  risk  of  compul 
sory  service  in  the  army. 

When  he  first  went  abroad,  an  American  was 
an  object  of  curiosity  to  Europeans,  and  we  may 
compare  his  reception  among  German  scholars 
to  that  of  Burns  by  the  metaphysicians,  philoso 
phers  and  social  leaders  of  Edinburgh — first  sur 
prise,  and  then  fraternal  welcome.  Two  years  were 
spent  at  Gottingen,  and  half  a  year  at  Berlin.  Du 
ring  this  period  he  was  the  pupil  and  companion 
of  the  great  philologist  Wolf,  of  whom  Ticknor's 
delightful  Memoirs  contain  such  an  entertaining 
account ;  he  studied  under  Schlosser,  who  so  fre 
quently  appears  in  the  pages  of  Crabb  Robinson's 
Memoirs  ;  he  was  a  favorite  with  Heeren,  whose 
endorsement  of  his  history  was  the  imprimatur 
of  a  literary  Pope.  In  his  subsequent  wanderings 
through  France,  Switzerland,  and  over  the  Alps 
into  Italy,  he  experienced  the  friendly  offices  of 
men  distinguished  in  literature,  famous  in  history, 
and  foremost  in  politics.  Some  time  was  spent 
in  Paris.  With  Lafayette  intimate  relations 
were  established ;  so  much  so,  that  the  champion 
of  republican  principles  enlisted  the  young  and 
sympathetic  American  in  his  too  sanguine 


24  GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

schemes.  Manuscript  addresses  were  entrusted  to 
Mr.  Bancroft  to  be  published  and  disseminated  at 
certain  places  along  his  Italian  journey.  But  the 
youthful  lieutenant  saw  soon  the  impracticability 
of  the  veteran's  hopes  and  plans. 

It  was  a  novel  sensation  to  converse  with  one 
who  survived  so  many  famous  men  of  many  lands 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact ;  one  who  discussed 
Byron  with  Goethe  at  Weimar,  and  Goethe  with 
Byron  at  Monte  Nero;  who,  seventy  years  ago, 
went  to  Washington  and  dined  at  the  White 
House  with  the  younger  Adams ;  who  since  min 
gled  with  the  successive  generations  of  American 
statesmen;  witnessed  the  death  of  one  great 
political  party,  and  the  birth  of  another,  but  him 
self  clung  with  conservative  consistency  to  the 
principles  he  espoused  in  early  manhood.  Yet 
neither  his  years  nor  his  tastes  exiled  him  from 
the  enjoyment  of  a  congenial  element  of  society 
at  the  capital.  But  his  circle  rarely  touched 
the  circumference  which  surrounds  the  gay 
and  ultra-fashionable  coteries  of  a  Washington 
season. 

Mr.  Bancroft  had  a  warm  sympathy  for  youth 
and  childhood,  and  took  pleasure  in  the  occasions 
that  brought  them  around  him.  His  habits  were 
those  of  one  who  early  appreciated  the  fact  that 
time  is  the  most  reliable  and  available  tool  of  the 
worker.  It  was  for  years  his  custom  to  rise  to  his 


GEORGE  BANCROFT.  25 

labors  at  five  o'clock.  After  a  noon-luncheon,  he 
took  the  exercise  which  contributed  so  much  to  his 
physical  and  intellectual  activity.  He  covered 
considerable  distances  daily  on  foot  or  horseback, 
for  he  was  both  pedestrian  and  rider  of  the  Eng 
lish  type;  or,  if  the  weather  did  not  favor  these 
methods  of  laying  in  a  supply  of  oxygen,  he  might 
have  been  seen  reclining  in  a  roomy  two-horse 
phaeton. 

Two  generations  intervened  between  the  youth 
ful  visitor  at  the  capital  and  the  venerable  states 
man  and  historian,  who  in  his  last  days,  beneath  his 
own  vine  and  fig-tree,  "  crowned  a  youth  of  labor 
with  an  age  of  ease."  Yet  the  preacher,  teacher, 
poet,  essayist,  translator,  philologist,  linguist, 
statesman,  diplomat,  historian,  pursued  with  tem 
pered  ardor  his  literary  avocations.  Readers  of 
The  North  American  Review  had  the  pleasure  of 
perusing,  some  years  ago,  his  valuable  paper  on 
Holmes's  "Emerson."  He  published  more  re 
cently  (in  1886)  a  brochure  on  the  Legal  Tender 
Acts  and  Decisions;  but  nothing  was  ever  al 
lowed  to  interfere  with  the  revision  of  his  opus 
major,  the  History  of  the  United  States,  the 
sixth  and  last  volume  of  the  new  edition  of 
which  was  issued  by  the  Appletons  in  February, 
1885. 

As  an  octogenarian  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a 
contemporary,  I  venture  to  enter  the  realm  of 


26  GEORGE  BANCROFT. 

biography,  and  refer  to  what  renders  Mr.  Bancroft 
the  most  interesting  of  American  authors.  His 
translation  from  the  path  of  pedagogy,  from  the 
dream-land  of  poetry,  from  the  atmosphere  of 
theology,  and  the  arena  of  party  strife  and  the 
novelty  of  official  life,  was  a  transition  from  ex 
treme  to  extreme.  Yet  he  brought  with  him 
into  his  new  fields  the  best  fruits  of  his  experience 
in  the  old.  He  did  not  inflame  the  passions  of 
the  masses  at  the  hustings,  but  instructed  their 
judgment.  When  he  assumed  the  office  of 
Collector  of  the  Port  of  Boston,  he  exhibited  a 
capacity  for  business  which  would  have  silenced 
the  modern  Senator  who  not  only  characterized 
scholars  as  "  them  literary  fellers,"  but  prefixed 
an  adjective  which  may  not  be  repeated  to  ears 
polite.  How  many  Cabinet  officers  are  remem 
bered  for  any  permanent  reform  or  progressive 
movement  they  have  accomplished  or  initiated  ? 
But  to  Mr.  Bancroft  the  country  owes  the  es 
tablishment  of  the  Naval  School  at  Annapolis  ; 
and  science  is  indebted  to  his  fostering  care  for 
the  contributory  usefulness  of  the  National  Ob 
servatory,  which  languished  until  he  took  the 
Naval  portfolio.  When  at  the  Court  of  St. 
James  he  negotiated  America's  first  postal  trea 
ty  with  Great  Britain  ;  while  allusion  has  been 
made  to  the  important  service  rendered  at  the 
German  capital.  In  politics  Mr.  Bancroft  was 


GEORGE  BANCROFT.  27 

always  a  Democrat.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
angered  fanatics  by  their  love  for  the  Constitution, 
and  enraged  secessionists  by  their  devotion  to  the 
Union, — who  labored  to  avert  the  War,  but  whom 
the  first  gun  fired  at  Fort  Sumter  rallied  to  the 
support  of  Mr.  Lincoln.  And  when  the  last  great 
eulogy  of  the  martyred  President  was  to  be  pro 
nounced,  Mr.  Bancroft  was  chosen  to  deliver  it. 

On  the  approach  of  summer,  Mr.  Bancroft  led 
the  exodus  which  leaves  the  capital  a  deserted  vil 
lage.  July  found  him  domiciled  at  Newport,  in  an 
old,  roomy  house,  which  faces  Bellevue  Avenue 
and  is  surrounded  by  venerable  trees,  beneath 
whose  wide- spreading  shade  the  visitor  drives  to 
the  historian's  summer  home.  The  view  of  the 
ocean  is  one  of  the  accidental  charms  of  the  spot, 
but  the  historian's  own  hand  dedicated  an  exten 
sive  plot  to  a  garden  of  roses — the  flower  which 
was  nearest  to  his  heart.  At  Newport  he  led  a 
life  similar  to  that  in  Washington.  He  rose  early 
and  saw  the  sun  rise  above  the  sea ;  he  devoted  a 
portion  of  his  time  to  literary  pursuits,  and  entered 
into  the  social  life  of  the  place,  without  taking  part 
in  its  gayeties.  In  October  he  struck  his  tent,  and 
returned  to  his  other  home  in  time  to  enjoy  the 
beauties  of  our  Indian  summer. 

B.  G.  LOVEJOY. 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER 

IN    PHILADELPHIA 

Like  Washington  Irving,  Bancroft,  Hawthorne, 
Lowell,  Motley,  Bayard  Taylor,  and  Bret  Harte, 
George  H.  Boker  may  be  counted  among  those 
American  authors  who  have  been  called  upon  to 
serve  their  country  in  an  official  capacity  abroad. 
But  the  greater  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  Phila 
delphia,  where  he  was  born  in  1823.  The  house 
stands  in  Walnut  Street ;  a  building  of  good  height, 
with  a  facing  of  conventional  brown- stone,  and 
set  in  the  heart  of  the  distinctively  aristocratic 
quarter.  For  Mr.  Boker  was  born  to  the  inheri 
tance  of  wealth  and  a  strong  social  position,  and 
it  is  natural  that  the  place  and  the  face  of  his 
house  should  testify  to  this  circumstance.  In 
fact,  he  was  so  closely  connected  with  the  society 
which  enjoys  a  reputed  leisure,  that  when  as  a 
young  man  he  declared  his  purpose  of  making 
authorship  and  literature  his  life-work,  his  circle 
regarded  him  as  hopelessly  erratic.  Philadel- 
phians,  in  those  days,  could  respect  imported 
poets,  and  no  doubt  partially  appreciated  poetry 

3' 


32  GEORGE  H,  BOKER. 

in  books,  as  an  ornamental  adjunct  of  life.  But 
poetry  in  an  actual,  breathing,  male  American 
creature  of  their  own  "  set,"  was  a  different  mat 
ter.  The  infant  industry  of  the  native  Muse  was 
one  that  they  never  thought  of  fostering. 

It  was  soon  after  graduating  at  Nassau  Hall, 
Princeton,  that  Boker  make  known  his  intention 
of  becoming  an  author.  From  what  I  have 
heard,  I  infer  that  his  resolve  caused  his  neigh 
bors  to  look  upon  him  with  somewhat  the  same 
feeling  as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  deposited  on 
their  decorous  doorsteps  in  the  character  of  a 
foundling.  Nevertheless,  he  persisted  quietly ; 
and  he  succeeded  in  maintaining  his  position  as 
a  poet  of  high  rank  and  an  accomplished  man 
of  the  world,  who  also  took  an  active  part  in 
public  affairs.  He  takes  place  with  Motley  on 
our  roll  of  well-known  authors,  as  a  rich  young 
man  giving  himself  to  letters  ;  and  it  is  even 
more  remarkable  that  he  should  have  cultivated 
poetry  in  Philadelphia,  where  the  conditions 
were  unfavorable,  than  that  Motley  should  have 
taken  up  history  in  Boston,  where  the  conditions 
were  wholly  propitious.  Boker's  house  bears  the 
impress  of  his  various  and  comprehensive  tastes. 
To  this  extent  it  becomes  an  illustration  of  his 
character,  and  the  illustration  is  worth  consid 
ering. 

The  first  floor,  as  one  enters  from  the  hallway, 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER.  33 

contains  the  dining-room  at  the  back,  and  a 
long,  stately  drawing-room  fitted  up  with  old-time 
richness  and  imbued  with  an  atmosphere  of 
courtly  reception.  But  the  library  or  study  is 
above,  on  the  second  floor.  It  has  two  windows 
looking  out  southward  over  the  garden  in  the 
rear  of  the  house,  and  the  whole  effect  of  the 
room  is  that  of  luxurious  comfort  mingled  with 
an  opulence  of  books.  The  walls  are  hung  with 
brown  and  gilded  paper,  and  the  visitor's  feet 
press  upon  a  heavy  Turkish  carpet,  brought  by 
the  poet  himself  from  Constantinople,  suggesting 
the  quietude  of  Tennyson's  "hushed  seraglios." 
The  chairs  and  the  lounges  are  covered  with  yel 
low  morocco.  On  the  wall  between  the  two 
windows  hangs  a  copy  of  the  Chandos  portrait  of 
Shakspeare ;  and  below  this  there  is  a  large 
writing-table,  provided  with  drawers  and  cup 
boards,  where  Mr.  Boker  kept  his  manuscripts. 
His  work,  however,  was  not  done  at  this  desk,  for 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  there  was  a  round  table 
under  the  chandelier,  with  a  large  arm-chair  drawn 
up  beside  it.  In  this  chair,  and  at  this  round 
table,  Mr.  Boker  wrote  nearly  all  his  works;  but, 
unlike  most  authors,  he  did  not  do  his  writing  on 
the  table.  A  portfolio  held  in  front  of  him,  while 
he  sat  in  the  chair,  served  his  purpose ;  and  it  may 
also  be  worth  while  to  note  the  fact  that  his  plays 


34  GEORGE  H.  BQKER. 

and  his  poems,  composed  in  this  spot,  were  first 
set  down  in  pencil. 

The  surroundings  are  delightful.  On  all  sides 
the  walls  are  filled  with  book-cases  reaching 
almost  to  the  ceiling;  the  windows  are  hung 
with  heavy  curtains  decorated  with  Arabic 
designs  ;  and  in  winter  a  fire  of  soft  coal  burns  in 
the  large  grate  at  one  side  of  the  apartment.  The 
books  that  glisten  from  the  shelves  are  cased  in 
bindings  and  covers  of  the  finest  sort,  made  by 
the  best  artists  of  England  and  France.  As  to 
their  contents,  the  strength  lies  in  a  collection  of 
old  English  drama  and  poetry  and  a  complete  set 
of  the  Latin  classics.  It  must  be  said  here,  how 
ever,  that  Mr.  Boker's  books  are  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  library.  The  presence  of  books 
is  visible  all  through  the  house,  and  one  can 
trace  at  various  points  the  fact  that  the  owner  of 
these  books  has  always  aimed  to  collect  the  best 
editions.  In  later  days  Mr.  Boker  has,  in  a 
measure,  been  exiled  from  the  companionship  of 
the  choicest  books  in  his  study ;  because,  in  order 
to  obtain  uninterrupted  quiet,  he  has  been 
obliged  to  retire  to  a  small  room  on  the  floor 
above  his  library,  where  he  is  more  secure  from 
disturbance. 

The  dining-room  is  a  noteworthy  apartment, 
not  only  because  many  distinguished  persons 
have  been  entertained  in  it,  but  also  because  it  is 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER.  35 

beautifully  finished  with  a  ceiling  and  walls  of 
black  oak,  framing  scarlet  panels,  that  set  off  the 
buffets  and  side-cases  full  of  silver  services.  If 
any  one  fancies,  however,  that  the  appointments 
of  the  dining-room  and  the  library  indicate  a  too 
Sybaritic  taste,  he  should  ascend  to  the  top  floor 
of  the  house,  where  Mr.  Boker  had  a  workshop 
containing  a  complete  outfit  for  a  turner  in  metals. 
Mr.  Boker  always  had  a  taste  for  working  at  what 
he  called  his  "trade"  of  producing  various  arti 
cles  in  metal,  on  his  turning-lathe.  In  younger 
days  it  used  to  be  his  boast  that  he  could  go  into 
the  shop  of  any  machinist,  take  off  his  coat, 
and  earn  his  living  as  a  skilled  workman.  He 
still  practiced  at  the  bench  in  his  own  workshop,  at 
the  age  of  sixty-five.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  was 
unique  among  American  authors,  in  uniting  with 
the  grace  and  fire  of  a  genuine  poet  the  diversions 
of  a  rich  society  man,  the  functions  of  a  public 
official,  and  a  capacity  for  practical  work  as  a 
mechanic. 

We  must  bear  in  mind,  also,  that  this  skilled 
laborer,  this  man  of  social  leisure  and  amusement, 
and  this  poet,  was  also  a  man  of  intense  action  in 
the  time  of  the  Civil  War,  when  he  organized  the 
Union  League  of  Philadelphia,  which  consolidated 
loyal  sentiment  in  the  chief  city  of  Pennsylvania, 
at  the  time  when  that  city  was  wavering.  All  the 
Union  Leagues  of  the  country  were  patterned 


36  GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

after  this  organization  in  Philadelphia.  More 
over,  when  Mr.  Boker  undertook  and  carried  on 
this  work,  his  whole  fortune  was  in  danger  of  loss, 
from  a  maliciously  inspired  law-suit.  With  the 
risk  of  complete  financial  ruin  impending,  he 
devoted  himself  wholly  to  the  cause  of  patriot 
ism,  and  poured  out  poem  after  poem  that 
became  the  battle-cry  of  loyalists  throughout  the 
North.  His  character  and  services  won  the  friend 
ship  of  General  Grant ;  and  after  the  War,  he  was 
appointed  United  States  Minister  to  Turkey ; 
from  which  post  he  was  promoted  to  St.  Peters 
burg.  The  impression  he  made  at  that  capital 
was  so  deep  that,  when  he  was  recalled,  Gort- 
schakoff  received  his  successor  with  these  words : 
"  I  cannot  say  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  In  fact,  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  see  you  at  all,  for  the  tears  that 
are  in  my  eyes  on  account  of  the  departure  of  our 
friend  Boker."  In  both  of  these  places  he 
rendered  important  services.  Among  the  dramas 
which  were  the  fruit  of  his  youth,  "Calaynos" 
and  "  Francesca  da  Rimini  "  achieved  a  great 
success,  both  in  England  and  in  this  country. 
The  revival  of  "  Francesca  da  Rimini "  at  the 
hands  of  Lawrence  Barrett,  and  its  run  of  two  or 
three  seasons,  thirty  years  after  its  production,  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  events  in  the  history 
of  the  American  stage.  Nor  should  it  be  forgot 
ten  that  Daniel  Webster  valued  one  of  Boker's 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER.  37 

sonnets  so  much,  that  he  kept  it  in  memory  to 
recite ;  and  that  Leigh  Hunt  selected  Boker  as  one 
of  the  best  exponents  of  mastery  in  the  perfect 
sonnet. 

An  early  portrait  of  Mr.  Boker  bears  strong  re 
semblance  to  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  in  his  manly 
prime.  But  passing  decades,  while  they  did  not 
bend  the  tall,  erect  figure,  whitened  the  thick, 
military- looking  moustache  and  short  curling  hair 
that  contrasted  strikingly  with  a  firm,  ruddy  com 
plexion.  His  commanding  presence  and  distin 
guished  appearance  were  as  well  known  in  Phila 
delphia  as  his  sturdy  personality  and  polished 
manners  were.  For  many  years  he  continued  to 
act  as  President  both  of  the  Union  League  and  of 
the  old,  aristocratic,  yet  hospitable,  Philadelphia 
Club.  These  two  clubs,  his  home  occupations  and 
his  numerous  social  engagements  occupied  much 
of  his  leisure  during  the  winter;  and  his  summers 
were  usually  spent  at  some  fashionable  resort  of 
the  quieter  order.  How  he  contrived  to  find  time 
for  reading  and  composition  it  is  hard  to  guess; 
but  his  pencil  was  not  altogether  idle  even  in  his 
last  years.  When  a  man  had  so  consistently  held 
his  course  and  fixed  his  place  as  a  poet,  a  drama 
tist,  a  brilliant  member  of  society,  an  active  patriot 
and  a  diplomatist,  it  seems  to  me  quite  worth  our 
while  to  recognize  that  he  did  this  under  circum 
stances  of  inherited  wealth  which  usually  lead  to 


38  GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

inertness.  It  is  worth  our  while  to  observe  that 
a  rich  American  devoted  his  life  to  literature,  and 
did  so  much  to  make  us  feel  that  he  deserved  to  be 
one  of  the  few  American  authors  who  enjoyed  a 
luxurious  home. 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 


39 


JOHN   BURROUGHS 

AT    ESOPUS   ON    THE    HUDSON 

When  the  author  of  "  Winter  Sunshine  "  comes 
to  town,  it  is  over  the  most  perfectly  graded 
track  and  through  the  finest  scenery  about  New 
York.  Returning  he  is  carried  past  Weehawken 
and  the  Palisades,  through  the  Jersey  Meadows, 
in  and  out  among  the  West  Shore  Highlands, 
under  West  Point,  and  past  Newburg  factories 
and  Marlborough  berry  farms.  He  leaves  the 
train  at  West  Park,  mounts  a  hill  through  a  peach- 
orchard,  crosses  a  grassy  field,  and  the  high-road 
when  he  reaches  the  top,  opens  a  rustic  gate,  and 
is  at  home.  From  the  road,  you  look  down  upon 
the  roofs  and  dormers  and  chimneys  of  the  house, 
about  ihalf  covered  with  the  red  and  purple  foli 
age  of  the  Virginia  creeper.  The  ground  slopes 
quite  steeply,  so  that  the  house  is  two  stories 
high  on  the  side  next  the  road  and  three  on  the 
side  toward  the  river,  which  winds  away  between 
high,  wooded  banks  to  the  Catskills,  twenty  miles  to 
the  north,  and  to  the  Highlands,  thirty  miles  to  the 
south.  The  slope,  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  to  the 
river,  is  laid  out  in  a  grapery  and  an  orchard  of 


42  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

apple  and  peach  trees.  Between  the  house  and 
the  road  the  steep  hillside  is  tufted  with  ever 
greens  and  other  ornamental  trees.  At  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  the  gray  roofs  of  a  big  ice-house  are 
seen.  Squirrels,  that  have  their  nests  in  the  saw 
dust  packing,  clamber  around  the  walls.  Near 
the  house,  to  the  left,  there  is  a  substantial  store 
house,  and  a  carriage-shed  and  stable.  There  are 
two  other  dwellings  on  the  farm.  The  country 
immediately  about  is  all  very  much  alike,  nearly 
half  of  it  in  ornamental  plantations  surrounding 
neat  country  houses ;  the  other  half,  where  it  is 
not  occupied  by  rocks,  being  covered  with  fruit, 
or  corn,  or  grass.  The  opposite  shore  of  the 
Hudson  is  of  the  same  character,  varied  with 
clumps  of  timber,  villas  and  farm-houses  of  the 
style  that  was  in  vogue  before  the  introduction 
of  the  so-called  Queen  Anne  mode  of  building;  a 
few  cultivated  fields  and  many  wild  meadows  and 
out-cropping  ridges  of  slate  rock  intervening. 
But  the  interior  country,  on  the  hither-side,  back 
of  the  railroad  which  cuts  through  the  slate  hills 
like  a  hay-knife,  is  a  perfect  wilderness — rugged, 
barren,  and  uninhabited.  A  number  of  little 
lakes  lie  behind  the  first  range  of  hills,  the  highest 
of  which  has  been  named  by  Mr.  Burroughs 
Mount  Hymettus,  because  it  is  a  famous  place 
for  wild  bees  and  sumac  honey.  From  one  of 
these  ponds,  an  exemplary  mountain  stream — 


JOHN  BURROUGHS.  43 

model  of  all  that  a  mountain  stream  should  be — 
makes  its  way  by  a  series  of  cascades  into  the 
valley,  where  it  forms  deep  pools,  peopled  by  sil 
very  chub  and  black  bass,  brawls  over  ledges, 
sparkles  in  the  sun,  and  sleeps  in  the  shadow,  and 
performs  all  the  recognized  and  traditional  brook 
"  business  "  to  perfection.  Its  specialty  is  its  bed 
of  black  stones  and  dark  green  moss,  which  has 
gained  it  its  name  of  Black  Creek.  At  one  spot, 
where  it  passes  under  a  high  bank  overhung  by 
hemlocks,  it  has  communicated  its  dark  color  to 
the  very  frogs  that  jump  into  it,  and  to  the 
dragonflies  that  rid  it  of  mosquitoes. 

The  road  between  West  Park  and  Esopus 
crosses  this  brook  near  a  ruined  mill,  whose 
charred  rafters  lie  in  the  cellar,  and  whose  wheel- 
buckets  are  filled  with  corn-shucks.  The  ruby 
berries  of  the  nightshade  hang  in  over  its  window- 
sills.  This  is  the  most  varied  two  miles  of  road 
that  I  can  bring  to  mind.  Starting  with  a  fine 
view  up  and  down  the  river,  it  soon  dips  into  the 
valley,  between  walls  of  slate  and  rows  of  tall 
locusts.  The  locusts  are  succeeded  by  the  firs 
and  pines  of  a  carefully  kept  estate.  Then  comes 
the  stream,  spanned  by  a  rustic  bridge  ;  the  ruined 
mill,  and  the  new  rise  of  ground  which,  beyond 
the  railroad,  reaches  up  into  summits  covered 
with  red  oaks  and  flaming  orange  maples.  A  tree 
by  the  roadside,  now  torn  in  two  by  a  storm,  is 


44  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

pointed  out  by  Mr.  Burroughs  as  the  former  home 
of  an  old  friend  of  his — a  brown  owl  who,  in 
the  course  of  a  ten  years'  acquaintanceship,  as  if 
dreading  the  contempt  that  familiarity  breeds, 
never  showed  an  entire  and  unhesitating  confi 
dence  in  him.  The  bird  would  slink  out  of  sight 
as  he  approached — slowly  and  by  imperceptible 
degrees ;  wisely  effacing  himself  rather  than  that 
it  should  be  said  he  was  too  intimate  with  a  mere 
human.  Esopus  contains  a  tavern,  a  post-office, 
a  bank,  a  blacksmith-shop,  and  one  or  two  houses ; 
and  yet — like  an  awkward  contingency — one  never 
suspects  its  existence  until  he  has  got  fairly  into 
it.  From  the  railroad  station  it  is  invisible  ;  it 
cannot  be  seen  from  the  river;  and  the  road, 
which  runs  through  it,  knows  nothing  of  it  before 
or  after. 

Mr.  Burroughs's  portrait  must  be  drawn  out  of 
doors.  He  is  of  a  medium  height,  but  being 
well-built  and  having  a  fine  head,  he  gives  the 
impression  of  being  by  no  means  a  middling  sort 
of  a  man,  physically.  His  skin  is  well  tanned  by 
exposure  to  all  sorts  of  weather.  He  has  grisly 
hair  and  beard.  The  eyes  and  mouth  have  a 
somewhat  feminine  character ;  the  eyes  are  humid, 
rather  large,  and  they  are  half  closed  when  he  is 
pleased  ;  the  lips  are  full,  the  line  between  them 
never  hard,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  are 
blunt.  The  nose  would  be  Roman,  if  it  were  a 


JOHN  BURROUGHS.  45 

trifle  longer.  I  make  no  apology  for  giving  so 
short  a  description  of  a  man  whom  it  would  be 
well  worth  while  to  paint.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  sketch  his  mental  features,  for  he  has  uncon 
sciously  placed  them  on  record,  himself,  in  the 
delightful  series  of  essays  which  he  has  added  to 
the  treasures  of  the  English  language. 

His  walks,  his  naturalistic  rambles,  his  longer 
boating  or  shooting  excursions,  are  the  subjects 
of  some  of  his  most  entertaining  chapters  ;  but  a 
not  impertinent  curiosity  may  be  gratified  by 
some  account  of  his  everyday  life  when  at  home 
and  at  work.  His  literary  labors  are  at  a  stand 
still  throughout  the  summer.  He  does  not  take 
notes.  Even  when  he  has  returned  from  camping 
out,  or  canoeing,  or  from  his  summer  vacation  of 
whatever  form,  he  does  not  rush  at  once  to  pen 
and  paper.  He  waits  till  the  spirit  moves  him, 
which  it  usually  begins  to  do  a  little  after  the 
first  frosts.  He  rises  early — between  five  and  six 
o'clock  ;  breakfasts,  reads  the  newspapers  or  em 
ploys  himself  about  the  house  and  farm  until 
nine  or  ten  ;  then  writes  for  three  or  four  hours, 
seldom  more.  He  has  always  refused  to  do  liter 
ary  work  to  order,  although  he  has  had  some 
tempting  offers.  He  will  write  only  what  he 
pleases,  and  when  he  pleases,  and  so  much  as  he 
pleases.  And  he  observes  no  method  in  prepar 
ing,  any  more  than  in  doing,  his  work.  He  exacts 


46  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

from  himself  no  account  of  his  time.  He  does 
not  feel  himself  bound  in  conscience  to  improve 
every  incident  that  has  occurred,  every  observa 
tion  he  has  made  during  the  year.  He  simply 
lets  the  material  which  he  has  absorbed  distill 
over  into  essays  long  or  short,  few  or  many,  as 
providence  directs.  He  does  not  belong  to  the 
class  of  methodical  laborers  who  make  a  business 
of  writing,  and  who  would  feel  conscience-stricken 
if,  at  the  close  of  their  working-day,  they  had  not 
blackened  a  certain  number  of  sheets  of  white 
paper.  But  he  acknowledges  that  good  work  is 
done  in  that  way,  and  he  thinks  it  is  all  a  matter 
of  habit. 

His  neighbors  see  to  it  that  his  leisure  does  not 
degenerate  into  idleness.  They  have  made  a 
bank  examiner  of  him,  and  a  superintendent  of 
roads,  and,  latterly,  a  postmaster.  The  first- 
mentioned  position  is  the  only  one  that  has  any 
emoluments  attached  to  it ;  but,  as  he  likes  to 
drive,  he  thinks  it  for  his  interest  to  see  after  the 
roads,  and  he  hopes,  now  that  his  post-office  at 
West  Farms  is  in  working  order,  to  get  his  mails 
in  good  time. 

Most  of  his  books—"  Wake  Robin,"  "  Birds  and 
Poets,"  "  Winter  Sunshine,"  etc. — were  written 
in  the  library  of  his  house,  a  small  room,  fitted 
with  book-shelves  both  glazed  and  open,  and 
enjoying  a  splendid  view  of  the  Hudson  to  and  be- 


JOHN  BURROUGHS.  47 

yond  Poughkeepsie.  But  he  has  lately  built  him 
self  a  study,  several  hundred  yards  from  the  house 
and  more  directly  overlooking  the  river.  Here 
he  has  pretty  complete  immunity  from  noise  and 
from  interruptions  of  all  sorts.  It  is  a  little, 
square  building,  the  walls  rough-cast  within  and 
faced  with  long  strips  of  bark  without.  Papers, 
magazines,  books,  photographs,  lithographs  lie 
scattered  over  the  table,  the  window-sills  and  the 
floor,  and  fill  some  shelves  let  into  a  little  recess 
in  the  wall.  A  student's  lamp  on  the  table  shows 
that  the  owner  sometimes  reads  here  at  night. 
His  room-mates  at  present  are  some  wasps  hatched 
out  of  a  nest  taken  last  winter  and  suspended  to 
the  chimney.  This  primitive  erection  is  further 
ornamented  with  a  lot  of  pictures  of  men  and 
birds,  the  men  mostly  poets — Carlyle  being  the 
only  exception — and  the  birds  all  songsters.  Two 
steps  from  the  study  is  a  summer-house  of  hem 
lock  branches,  with  gnarled  vine-stocks  twisted 
in  among  them,  where  one  may  sit  of  an  after 
noon  and  read  the  New  York  morning  papers,  or 
watch  the  boats  or  the  trains  on  the  opposite 
bank,  or  the  antics  of  a  squirrel  among  the 
branches  of  the  apple-tree  overhead,  or  the  strug 
gles  of  a  honey-bee  backing  out  of  a  flower  of 
yellow-rattle. 

Mr.  Burroughs  has  been  his  own  architect ;  and 
I  know  many  people  who  might  wish  that  he  had 
been  theirs  too.  He  planned  and  superintended 


4§  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

the  erection  of  his  house,  which  is  a  four-gabled 
structure,  with  a  porch  in  front  and  a  broad  bal 
cony  in  the  rear.  Most  of  the  timber  for  the 
upper  story  is  oak  from  his  old  Delaware  County 
farm.  The  stone  of  which  the  two  lower  stories 
are  built  was  obtained  on  the  spot,  and  is  a  dark 
slate  plentifully  veined  with  quartz.  Great  pains 
were  taken  in  the  building  to  turn  the  handsomest 
samples  of  quartz  to  the  fore,  and  to  put  them 
where  they  would  do  the  most  good,  artistically. 
Over  the  lintel  of  the  door,  for  example,  is  a  row 
of  three  fine  specimens  ;  and  a  big  chunk,  with 
mosses  lying  between  its  crystals,  protrudes  from 
the  wall  near  the  porch.  The  variety  of  color  so 
obtained,  with  the  drab  woodwork  of  the  upper 
story  and  the  red  Virginia  vine,  keeps  the  house, 
at  all  seasons,  in  harmony  with  its  surroundings. 
It  is  no  less  so  within ;  for  doors,  wainscots, 
window-frames,  joists,  sills,  skirting-boards,  floor 
and  rafters  are  all  of  native  woods,  left  of  their 
natural  colors,  and  skillfully  contrasted  with  one 
another;  one  door  being  of  Georgia  pine  with 
oak  panels,  another  of  chestnut  and  curled  maple, 
a  third  of  butternut  and  cherry,  and  so  on. 
Grayish,  or  brownish,  or  russet  wall-papers,  and 
carpets  to  match,  give  the  house  very  much  of 
the  appearance  of  a  nest,  into  the  composition  of 
which  nothing  enters  that  is  not  of  soft  textures 
and  low  and  harmonious  color. 

ROGER  RIORDAN. 


GEORGE  W.  CABLE 


49 


GEORGE  W.  CABLE 

AT   NEW   ORLEANS   AND    NORTHAMPTON 

Far  up  in  the  "  garden  district  "  of  New  Orleans 
stands  a  pretty  cottage,  painted  in  soft  tones  of 
olive  and  red.  A  strip  of  lawn  bordered  with 
flowers  lies  in  front  of  it,  and  two  immense  orange 
trees,  beautiful  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  form  an 
arch  above  the  steps  that  lead  up  to  the  piazza. 
Here  Mr.  Cable  made  his  home  for  some  years, 
and  here  were  written  "The  Grandissimes," 
"Madame  Delphine  "  and  "Dr.  Sevier."  Those 
who  were  fortunate  enough  to  pass  beyond  its 
portals  found  the  interior  cosy  and  tasteful,  with 
out  any  attempt  at  display.  The  study  was  a 
room  of  many  doors  and  windows  with  low  book 
cases  lining  the  walls,  and  adorned  with  pictures 
in  oil  and  water-colors  by  G.  H.  Clements,  and  in 
black  and  white  by  Joseph  Pennell.  The  desk, 
around  which  hovered  so  many  memories  of  Bras- 
Coupe^  and  Madame  Delphine,  and  gentle  Mary, 
was  a  square,  old-fashioned  piece  of  furniture, 
severely  plain,  but  very  roomy. 

Neither  was  comfort  neglected;  fora  hammock 
swung  in  the  study,  in  which  the  author  could  rest, 


52  GEORGE    W.    CABLE. 

from  time  to  time,  from  his  labors.  Mr.  Cable's 
plan  of  work  is  unusually  methodical,  for  his 
counting-room  training  has  stood  him  in  good 
stead.  All  his  notes  and  references  are  carefully 
indexed  and  journaled,  and  so  systematized  that 
he  can  turn,  without  a  moment's  delay,  to  any  au 
thority  he  wishes  to  consult.  In  this  respect,  as 
in  many  others,  he  has  not,  perhaps,  his  equal 
among  living  authors.  In  making  his  notes,  it  is 
his  usual  custom  to  write  in  pencil  on  scraps  of 
paper.  These  notes  are  next  put  into  shape,  still 
in  pencil,  and  the  third  copy,  intended  for  the 
press,  is  written  in  ink  on  note-paper — the  chiro- 
graphy  exceedingly  neat,  delicate  and  legible.  He 
is  always  exact,  and  is  untiring  in  his  researches. 
The  charge  of  anachronism  has  several  times 
been  laid  at  his  door  ;  but  this  is  an  accusation  it 
would  be  difficult  to  prove.  Before  attempting  to 
write  upon  any  historical  point,  he  gathers  together 
all  available  data  without  reckoning  time  or 
trouble ;  and,  under  such  conditions,  nothing  is 
more  unlikely  than  that  he  should  be  guilty  of 
error.  Mr.  Cable  has  a  great  capacity  for  work, 
and  his  earlier  stories  were  written  under  the 
stress  of  unremitting  toil.  Later,  when  he  was 
able  to  emerge  from  business  life  and  follow 
the  profession  of  literature  exclusively,  he  con 
tinued  his  labors  in  the  church,  and  never  allowed 
any  engagement  to  interfere  with  his  Sunday- 


GEORGE    W.    CABLE.  53 

school  and  Bible-classes.  In  his  books,  religion 
has  the  same  place  that  it  takes  in  a  good  man's 
life.  Nothing  is  said  or  done  for  effect ;  neither 
is  he  ashamed  to  confess  his  faith  before  the 
world. 

It  is  perhaps  strange  that  Mr.  Cable  should 
have  the  true  artistic,  as  well  as  the  religious, 
temperament,  since  these  two  do  not  invariably 
go  hand  in  hand.  Music,  painting,  and  sculpture 
are  full  of  charms  for  him,  and  he  is  an  intuitive 
judge  of  what  is  best  in  art.  His  knowledge  of 
music  is  far  above  the  ordinary,  and  he  has  made 
a  unique  study  of  the  usually  elusive  and  baffling 
strains  of  different  song-birds.  He  is  such  a 
many-sided  man  that  he  should  never  find  a 
moment  of  the  day  hanging  heavily  upon  his 
hands.  The  study  of  botany  was  a  source  of 
great  pleasure  to  him,  at  one  time  ;  and  he  had, 
also,  an  aviary  in  which  he  took  a  deep  interest. 

Seemingly  sedate,  Mr.  Cable  is  full  of  fun ;  and 
charming  as  he  is  in  general  society,  a  compli 
ment  may  be  paid  him  that  cannot  often  be 
spoken  truthfully  of  men  of  genius — namely,  that 
he  appears  to  the  best  advantage  in  his  own 
home.  His  children  are  a  merry  little  band  of 
five  girls  and  one  boy,  each  evincing,  young  as 
they  are,  some  distinctive  talent.  It  is  amusing 
to  note  their  appreciation  of  '  father's  fun,'  and 
his  playful  speeches  always  give  the  signal  for 


54  GEORGE    W.    CABLE. 

bursts  of  laughter.  This  spirit  of  humor,  so 
potent  "  to  witch  the  heart  out  of  things  evil,"  is 
either  hereditary  or  contagious,  for  all  of  these 
little  folks  are  ready  of  tongue.  The  friends 
whom  Mr.  Cable  left  behind  him,  in  New 
Orleans,  remember  with  regretful  pleasure  the 
delightful  little  receptions  which  have  now 
become  a  thing  of  the  past.  Sometimes,  at  these 
gatherings,  he  would  sing  an  old  Scotch  balled, 
in  his  clear,  sweet  tenor  voice,  or  one  of  those 
quaint  Creole  songs  that  he  has  since  made 
famous  on  the  lecture  platform  ;  or,  again,  he 
would  read  a  selection  from  "  Dukesborough 
Tales  " — one  of  his  favorite  humorous  works. 
Nothing  was  stereotyped  or  conventional,  for 
Mr.  Cable  is,  in  every  aspect  of  life,  a  dangerous 
enemy  of  the  common-place.  But  the  pleasant 
dwelling-place  has  passed  into  other  hands ;  other 
voices  echo  through  the  rooms ;  and  Mr.  Cable 
has  found  a  new  home  in  a  more  invigorating 
climate. 

The  highway  leading  from  the  town  of  North 
ampton,  Mass.,  which  one  must  follow  in  order 
to  find  Mr.  Cable's  house,  has  the  aspect  of  a 
quiet  country  road,  but  is,  in  reality,  one  of  the 
streets  of  the  city,  with  underlying  gas  and 
water-pipes.  It  is  studded  with  handsome  dwell 
ings,  some  of  brick  and  stone,  others  of  simple 
frame-work — each  with  velvet  lawn  shaded  with 


GEORGE    W.    CABLE.  55 

spreading  elms,  and  here  and  there  a  birch  or 
pine.  The  romancer's  house  is  the  last  at  the 
edge  of  the  town,  on  what  is  fitly  named  the 
Paradise  Road.  It  is  a  red  brick  building  of  two 
stories  and  a  half,  with  a  vine-covered  piazza ; 
and  the  smooth-cut  lawn  slopes  gently  down  to 
the  street,  separated  only  from  the  sidewalk  by  a 
stone  coping.  Above  all  things,  one  is  conscious, 
on  entering  here,  of  a  sense  of  comfort  and  home 
happiness.  The  furniture  is  simple  but  exceed 
ingly  tasteful,  of  light  woods  with  little  uphol 
stery;  and  the  visitor  finds  an  abundance  of  easy- 
chairs  and  settees  of  willow.  The  study  is  a 
delightful  nook,  opening  by  sliding  doors  from 
the  parlor  on  one  side  and  the  hall  on  another. 
A  handsome  table  of  polished  cherry,  usually 
strewn  with  books  and  papers,  occupies  the  center 
of  the  room,  and,  as  in  the  old  home,  the  walls 
are  lined  with  book-shelves.  A  large  easy-chair, 
upon  which  the  thoughtful  wife  insisted,  when 
the  room  was  being  fitted  up,  affords  a  welcome 
resting-place  to  the  weary  author.  Sometimes 
she  lends  her  gentle  presence  to  the  spot,  and  sits 
there,  with  her  quiet  needlework,  while  the  story 
or  lecture  is  in  the  course  of  preparation.  One 
of  the  charms  of  this  sanctum  is  the  view  from 
the  two  windows  that  extend  nearly  to  the  floor. 
From  one  may  be  descried  the  blue  and  hazy 
line  of  the  Hampshire  hills,  while  from  the  other 


56  GEORGE    W.    CABLE. 

one  sees  Mt.  Holyoke  and  Mt.  Tom  uprearing 
their  stately  heads  to  the  sky.  Sloping  down 
from  the  carriage-drive  which  passes  it  lies  Para 
dise — a  stretch  of  woods  bordering  Mill  River. 
No  more  appropriate  name  could  be  given  it,  for 
if  magnificent  trees,  beautiful  flowers,  green-clad 
hill  and  dell,  and  winding  waters,  and  above  all, 
the  perfect  peace  of  nature,  broken  only  by  bird- 
notes,  can  make  a  paradise,  it  is  found  in  this 
corner  of  Northampton,  itself  the  loveliest  of 
New  England  towns.  Mr.  Cable  confesses  that 
this  scene  of  enchantment  is  almost  too  distract 
ing  to  the  mind,  and  that,  when  deeply  engaged 
in  composition,  he  finds  it  necessary  to  draw  the 
curtains. 

If  the  days  in  Mr.  Cable's  home  are  delightful, 
the  evenings  are  not  less  charming.  After  the 
merry  tea  and  the  constitutional  walk  have  been 
taken,  the  family  gather  in  the  sitting-room. 
Usually,  two  or  three  friends  drop  in ;  but  if 
none  come,  the  children  are  happy  to  draw 
closely  around  their  father,  while  he  plays  old- 
time  songs  or  Creole  dances  on  his  guitar.  As 
he  sings,  one  after  another  joins  in,  and  finally 
the  day  is  ended  with  a  hymn  and  the  evening 
worship.  The  hour  is  early,  for  the  hard-working 
brain  must  have  its  full  portion  of  rest.  It  is  one 
of  Mr.  Cable's  firm-rooted  principles  that  the 
mind  can  not  do  its  best  unless  the  body  is  well 


GEORGE    W.    CABLE.  57 

treated  ;  and  he  gives  careful  attention  to  all 
rules  of  health.  Apart  from  the  brilliant  fact  of 
his  genius,  this  is  the  secret  of  the  evenness  of 
his  work.  There  is  no  feverish  energy  weaken 
ing  into  feverish  lassitude  ;  it  moves  on  without 
haste,  without  rest.  Mr.  Cable  well  advised  a 
young  writer  never  to  publish  anything  but  his 
best ;  and  it  is  this  principle,  doubtless,  that  has 
prevented  him  from  thinking  it  necessary,  as 
many  English  and  American  authors  seem  to 
fancy,  to  turn  out  a  certain  amount  of  printed 
matter  every  year.  In  addition  to  his  literary 
labors,  Mr.  Cable  is  frequently  absent  from  home 
on  reading  and  lecture  engagements,  and  great  is 
the  rejoicing  of  his  family  when  they  have  him 
once  more  among  them.  Mr.  Cable's  place  in 
literature  is  as  unique  as  that  of  Hawthorne. 
He  is  distinctively  and  above  all  things  an 
American.  He  has  not  found  it  necessary  to 
cross  the  water  in  search  of  inspiration ;  and  he 
is  the  only  American  author  of  any  prominence 
whose  turn  of  mind  has  never  been  influenced  by 
the  foreign  classics. 

What  Bret  Harte  has  done  for  the  stern  angu 
larity  of  Western  life,  Mr.  Cable  has  wrought,  in 
infinitely  finer  and  subtler  lines,  for  his  soft- 
featured  and  passionate  native  land.  Those  who 
come  after  him  in  delineation  of  Creole  character 
can  only  be  followers  in  his  footsteps,  for  to  him 


58  GEORGE    W.    CABLE. 

alone  belongs  the  credit  of  striking  this  new  vein, 
so  rich  in  promise  and  fulfillment.  An  alien  com 
ing  among  them  would  be  as  one  who  speaks  a 
different  language.  He  would  be  impressed  only 
by  superficial  peculiarities,  and  would  chronicle 
them  from  this  standpoint.  But  Mr.  Cable 
knows  these  people  to  their  heart's  core ;  he  is 
saturated  with  their  individuality  and  traditions ; 
to  him  their  very  inflection  of  voice,  turn  of  the 
head,  motion  of  the  hands,  is  eloquent  with  mean 
ing.  His  work  will  endure  because  it  is  entirely 
wholesome,  and  full  of  that  "  sanity  of  mind  " 
which  speaks  with  such  a  strenuous  voice  to  the 
mass  of  mankind.  The  writer  who  appeals  from 
a  diseased  imagination  to  an  audience  full  of 
diseased  and  morbid  tastes,  must  necessarily  have 
a  small  clientele  ;  for  there  are  comparatively  few 
people,  as  balanced  against  the  vast  hordes  of 
workers,  who  are  so  satiated  with  the  good  things 
of  this  life  that  they  must  always  seek  for  some 
new  sensation  strong  enough  to  blister  their 
jaded  palates.  The  men  and  women  who  labor 
and  endure  desire  after  their  day  of  toil  some 
thing  that  will  cheer  and  refresh  ;  and  this  will 
remain  so  as  long  as  health  predominates  over 
disease. 

The  engraving  in  The  Century  of  February, 
1882,  has  made  the  reading  public  familiar  with 
Mr.  Cable's  features;  but  there  is  lacking  the 


GEORGE    W.    CABLE.  59 

lurking  sparkle  in  the  dark  hazel  eyes,  and  the 
curving  of  the  lips  into  a  peculiarly  winning 
smile.  In  person,  Mr.  Cable  is  small  and  slight, 
with  chestnut  hair,  beard  and  moustache ;  and 
there  is  a  marked  development  of  the  forehead 
above  the  eyebrows,  supposed,  by  believers  in 
phrenology,  to  indicate  unusual  musical  talent. 
On  paper,  it  is  hard  to  express  the  charm  of  his 
individuality,  or  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  his 
sunny  talk,  with  its  quaint  turns  of  thought  and 
the  felicitous  phrases  that  spring  spontaneously 
to  his  lips.  Those  who  have  been  impressed  by 
the  deep  humanity  that  made  it  possible  for  him 
to  write  such  a  book  as  "  Dr.  Sevier,"  will  find  the 
man  and  the  author  one  and  indivisible.  Noth 
ing  is  forced,  or  uttered  for  the  sake  of  making 
an  impression  ;  and  the  listener  may  be  sure  that 
Mr.  Cable  is  saying  what  he  thinks.  The  con 
scientiousness  that  enabled  him  to  be  a  brave 
soldier  and  an  untiring  business  man,  runs 
through  his  whole  life  ;  and  he  has  none  of  that 
moral  cowardice  which  staves  off  an  expression 
of  opinion  with  a  falsely  pleasant  word. 

J.  K.  WETHERILL. 

[Eight  years  ago  Mr.  Cable  left  the  house  in 
Paradise  Road  for  a  new  Colonial  house  on  "  Dry 
ad's  Green,"  against  a  background  of  pines, — 
"  Tarryawhile,"  with  a  cottage  workshop  of  two 
rooms  near  by. — EDITORS.  ] 


S.  L.  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN) 


61 


S.  L.  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN) 

AT    HARTFORD    AND    ELMIRA 

The  story  of  Mark  Twain's  life  has  been  told 
so  often  that  it  has  lost  its  novelty  to  many 
readers,  though  its  romance  has  the  quality  of 
permanence.  But  people  to-day  are  more  inter 
ested  in  the  author  than  they  are  in  the  printer, 
the  pilot,  the  miner,  or  the  reporter,  of  twenty  or 
thirty  years  ago.  The  editor  of  one  of  the  most 
popular  American  magazines  once  alluded  to  him 
as  "the  most  widely  read  person  who  writes 
in  the  English  language."  More  than  half  a  mil 
lion  copies  of  his  books  have  been  sold  in  this 
country.  England  and  the  English  colonies  all 
over  the  world  have  taken  at  least  half  as  many 
in  addition.  His  sketches  and  shorter  articles 
have  been  published  in  every  language  which  is 
printed,  and  the  larger  books  have  been  trans 
lated  into  German,  French,  Italian,  Norwegian, 
Danish,  etc.  He  is  one  of  the  few  living  men 
with  a  truly  world-wide  reputation.  Unless  the 
excellent  gentlemen  who  have  been  engaged  in 
revising  the  Scriptures  should  claim  the  author 
ship  of  their  work,  there  is  no  other  living  writer 

63 


64  &   L.    CLEMENS  (MARK   TWAIN}, 

whose  books  are  now  so  widely  read  as  Mark 
Twain's  ;  and  it  may  not  be  out  of  the  way  to 
add  that  in  more  than  one  pious  household  the 
"  Innocents  Abroad  "  is  laid  beside  the  family 
Bible,  and  referred  to  as  a  hand-book  of  Holy 
Land  description  and  narrative. 

Off  the  platform  and  out  of  his  books,  Mark 
Twain  is  Samuel  L.  Clemens — a  man  who  was 
born  November  30,  1835.  He-  is  of  a  very 
noticeable  personal  appearance,  with  his  slender 
figure,  his  finely  shaped  head,  his  thick,  curling, 
very  gray  hair,  his  heavy  arched  eyebrows, 
over  dark  gray  eyes,  and  his  sharply,  but  deli 
cately,  cut  features.  Nobody  is  going  to  mis 
take  him  for  any  one  else,  and  his  attempts  to 
conceal  his  identity  at  various  times  have  been 
comical  failures.  In  1871  Mr.  Clemens  made  his 
home  in  Hartford,  and  in  some  parts  of  the 
world  Hartford  to-day  is  best  known  because  it  is 
his  home.  He  built  a  large  and  unique  house  in 
Nook  Farm,  on  Farmington  Avenue,  about  a 
mile  and  a  quarter  from  the  old  centre  of  the 
city.  It  was  the  fancy  of  its  designer  to  show 
what  could  be  done  with  bricks  in  building,  and 
what  effect  of  variety  could  be  got  by  changing 
their  color,  or  the  color  of  the  mortar,  or  the 
angle  at  which  they  were  set.  The  result  has 
been  that  a  good  many  of  the  later  houses  built 
in  Hartford  reflect  in  one  way  or  another  the  in- 


S.    L.    CLEMENS  (MARK   TWA IX).  65 

fluence  of  this  one.  In  their  travels  in  Europe, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clemens  have  found  various  rich 
antique  pieces  of  household  furniture,  including 
a  great  wooden  mantel  and  chimney-piece,  now 
in  their  library,  taken  from  an  English  baronial 
hall,  and  carved  Venetian  tables,  bedsteads,  and 
other  pieces.  These  add  their  peculiar  charm  to 
the  interior  of  the  house.  The  situation  of  the 
building  makes  it  very  bright  and  cheerful.  On 
the  top  floor  is  Mr.  Clemens's  own  working-room. 
In  one  corner  is  his  writing-table,  covered  usu 
ally  with  books,  manuscripts,  letters,  and  other 
literary  litter ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
stands  the  billiard-table,  upon  which  a  large  part 
of  the  work  of  the  place  is  expended.  By  strict 
attention  to  this  business,  Mr.  Clemens  has 
become  an  expert  in  the  game  ;  and  it  is  part  of 
his  life  in  Hartford  to  get  a  number  of  friends 
together  every  Friday  for  an  evening  of  billiards. 
He  even  plans  his  necessary  trips  away  from 
home  so  as  to  get  back  in  time  to  observe  this 
established  custom. 

Mr.  Clemens  divides  his  year  into  two  parts, 
which  are  not  exactly  for  work  and  play  respect 
ively,  but  which  differ  very  much  in  the  nature 
of  their  occupations.  From  the  first  of  June  to 
the  middle  of  September,  the  whole  family,  con 
sisting  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clemens  and  their  three 
little  girls,  are  at  Elmira,  N.  Y.  They  live  there 


66  s.   L.    CLEMEN'S  (MARK   TWAIN}. 

with  Mr.  T.  W.  Crane,  whose  wife  is  a  sister  of 
Mrs.  Clemens.  A  summer-house  has  been  built 
for  Mr.  Clemens  within  the  Crane  grounds,  on  a 
high  peak,  which  stands  six  hundred  feet  above 
the  valley  that  lies  spread  out  before  it.  The 
house  is  built  almost  entirely  of  glass,  and  is 
modeled  exactly  on  the  plan  of  a  Mississippi 
steamboat's  pilot-house.  Here,  shut  off  from  all 
outside  communication,  Mr.  Clemens  does  the 
hard  work  of  the  year,  or  rather  the  confining 
and  engrossing  work  of  writing,  which  demands 
continuous  application,  day  after  day.  The  lofty 
work-room  is  some  distance  from  the  house.  He 
goes  to  it  every  morning  about  half-past  eight 
and  stays  there  until  called  to  dinner  by  the  blow 
ing  of  a  horn  about  five  o'clock.  He  takes  no 
lunch  or  noon  meal  of  any  sort,  and  works  with 
out  eating,  while  the  rules  are  imperative  not  to 
disturb  him  during  this  working  period.  His 
only  recreation  is  his  cigar.  He  is  an  inveterate 
smoker,  and  smokes  constantly  while  at  his  work, 
and,  indeed,  all  the  time,  from  half-past  eight  in 
the  morning  to  half-past  ten  at  night,  stopping 
only  when  at  his  meals.  A  cigar  lasts  him  about 
forty  minutes,  now  that  he  has  reduced  to  an  ex- 
act  science  the  art  of  reducing  the  weed  to  ashes. 
So  he  smokes  from  fifteen  to  twenty  cigars  every 
day.  Some  time  ago  he  was  persuaded  to  stop 
the  practice,  and  actually  went  a  year  and  more 


S.   L.    CLEMENS  (MARK   TWAIN).  67 

without  tobacco  ;  but  he  found  himself  unable  to 
carry  along  important  work  which  he  undertook, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  resumed  smoking  that  he 
could  do  it.  Since  then  his  faith  in  his  cigar  has 
not  wavered.  Like  other  American  smokers,  Mr. 
Clemens  is  unceasing  in  his  search  for  the  really 
satisfactory  cigar  at  a  really  satisfactory  price, 
and,  first  and  last,  has  gathered  a  good  deal  of 
experience  in  the  pursuit.  It  is  related  that, 
having  entertained  a  party  of  gentlemen  one  win 
ter  evening  in  Hartford,  he  gave  to  each,  just 
before  they  left  the  house,  one  of  a  new  sort  of 
cigar  that  he  was  trying  to  believe  was  the  object 
of  his  search.  He  made  each  guest  light  it  before 
starting.  The  next  morning  he  found  all  that  he 
had  given  away  lying  on  the  snow  beside  the 
pathway  across  his  lawn.  Each  smoker  had  been 
polite  enough  to  smoke  until  he  got  out  of  the 
house,  but  every  one,  on  gaining  his  liberty,  had 
yielded  to  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  and 
tossed  the  cigar  away,  forgetting  that  it  would  be 
found  there  by  daylight.  The  testimony  of  the 
next  morning  was  overwhelming,  and  the  verdict 
against  the  new  brand  was  accepted. 

At  Elmira,  Mr.  Clemens  works  hard.  He  puts 
together  there  whatever  may  have  been  in  his 
thoughts  and  recorded  in  his  note-books  during 
the  rest  of  the  year.  It  is  his  time  of  completing 
work  begun,  and  of  putting  into  definite  shape 


68  S.   L.    CLEMENS  (MARK   TWAIN}. 

what  have  been  suggestions  and  possibilities.  It 
is  not  his  literary  habit,  however,  to  carry  one 
line  of  work  through  from  beginning  to  end  be 
fore  taking  up  the  next.  Instead  of  that,  he  has 
always  a  number  of  schemes  and  projects  going 
along  at  the  same  time,  and  he  follows  first  one 
and  then  another,  according  as  his  mood  inclines 
him.  Nor  do  his  productions  come  before  the 
public  always  as  soon  as  they  are  completed. 
He  has  been  known  to  keep  a  book  on  hand  for 
five  years,  after  it  was  finished.  But  while  the 
life  at  Elmira  is  in  the  main  seclusive  and  system 
atically  industrious,  that  at  Hartford,  to  which 
he  returns  in  September,  is  full  of  variety  and 
entertainment.  His  time  is  then  less  restricted, 
and  he  gives  himself  freely  to  the  enjoyment  of 
social  life.  He  entertains  many  friends,  and  his 
hospitable  house,  seldom  without  a  guest,  is  one 
of  the  literary  centers  of  the  city.  Mr.  Howells 
is  a  frequent  visitor,  as  Bayard  Taylor  used  to  be. 
Cable,  Aldrich,  Henry  Irving,  Stanley,  and  many 
others  of  wide  reputation,  have  been  entertained 
there.  The  next  house  to  Mr.  Clemens's  on  the 
south  is  Charles  Dudley  Warner's  home,  and  the 
next  on  the  east  is  Mrs.  Stowe's,  so  that  the  most 
famous  three  writers  in  Hartford  live  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  each  other. 

At  Hartford  Mr.  Clemens's  hours  of  occupation 
are  less  systematized,  but  he  is  no  idler  there. 


S.  L.    CLEMENS  (MARK   TWAIN}.  69 

At  some  times  he  shuts  himself  in  his  working- 
room  and  declines  to  be  interrupted  on  any  ac 
count,  though  there  are  not  wanting  some  among 
his  expert  billiard-playing  friends  to  insist  that 
this  seclusion  is  merely  to  practice  uninterrupt 
edly  while  they  are  otherwise  engaged.  Cer 
tainly  he  is  a  skillful  player.  He  keeps  a  pair  of 
horses,  and  rides  more  or  less  in  his  carriage,  but 
does  not  drive,  or  ride  on  horseback.  He  is, 
however,  an  adept  upon  the  bicycle.  He  has 
made  its  conquest  a  study,  and  has  taken,  and  also 
experienced,  great  pains  with  the  work.  On  his 
bicycle  he  travels  a  great  deal,  and  he  is  also  an 
indefatigable  pedestrian,  taking  long  walks  across 
country,  frequently  in  the  company  of  his  friend 
the  Rev.  Joseph  H.  Twichell,  at  whose  church 
(Congregational)  he  is  a  pew-holder  and  regular 
attendant.  For  years  past  he  has  been  an  indus 
trious  and  extensive  reader  and  student  in  the 
broad  field  of  general  culture.  He  has  a  large 
library  and  a  real  familiarity  with  it,  extending 
beyond  our  own  language  into  the  literatures  of 
Germany  and  France.  He  seems  to  have  been 
fully  conscious  of  the  obligations  which  the  suc 
cessful  opening  of  his  literary  career  laid  upon 
him,  and  to  have  lived  up  to  its  opportunities  by 
a  conscientious  and  continuous  course  of  reading 
and  study  which  supplements  the  large  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature  that  the  vicissitudes  of  his 


?o  S.   L.    CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN}. 

early  life  brought  with  them.  His  resources  are 
not  of  the  exhaustible  sort.  He  is  a  member 
of  (among  other  social  organizations)  the  Mon 
day  Evening  Club  of  Hartford,  that  was  founded 
nearly  twenty  years  ago  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bush- 
nell,  Dr.  Henry,  and  Dr.  J.  Hammond  Trumbull, 
and  others,  with  a  membership  limited  to  twenty. 
The  club  meets  on  alternate  Monday  evenings 
from  October  to  May  in  the  houses  of  the  mem 
bers.  One  person  reads  a  paper  and  the  others 
then  discuss  it ;  and  Mr.  Clemens's  talks  there, 
as  well  as  his  daily  conversation  among  friends, 
amply  demonstrate  the  spontaneity  and  natural 
ness  of  his  irrepressible  humor. 

His  inventions  are  not  to  be  overlooked  in  any 
attempt  to  outline  his  life  and  its  activities. 
"  Mark  Twain's  Scrap-Book  "  must  be  pretty  well 
known  by  this  time,  for  something  like  100,000 
copies  of  it  have  been  sold  yearly  for  ten  years 
or  more.  As  he  wanted  a  scrap-book,  and  could 
not  find  what  he  wanted,  he  made  one  himself, 
which  naturally  proved  to  be  just  what  other  peo 
ple  wanted.  Similarly,  he  invented  a  note-book. 
It  is  his  habit  to  record  at  the  moment  they  occur  to 
him  such  scenes  and  ideas  as  he  wishes  to  preserve. 
All  note-books  that  he  could  buy  had  the  vicious 
habit  of  opening  at  the  wrong  place  and  distract 
ing  attention  in  that  way.  So,  by  a  simple 
contrivance,  he  arranged  one  that  always  opens 
at  the  right  place  ;  that  is,  of  course,  at  the  page 


S.  L.    CLEMENS  (MARK   TWAIN).  71 

last  written  upon.  Other  simple  inventions  by 
Mark  Twain  include  a  vest  which  enables  the 
wearer  to  dispense  with  suspenders  ;  a  shirt,  with 
collars  and  cuffs  attached,  which  requires  neither 
buttons  nor  studs ;  a  perpetual-calendar  watch- 
charm,  which  gives  the  day  of  the  week  and  of 
the  month  ;  and  a  game  whereby  people  may 
play  historical  dates  and  events  upon  a  board, 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  cribbage,  being  a 
game  whose  office  is  twofold — to  furnish  the 
dates  and  events,  and  to  impress  them  perma 
nently  upon  the  memory. 

In  1885  Mark  Twain  and  George  W.  Cable 
made  a  general  tour  of  the  country,  each  giving 
readings  from  his  own  works :  and  they  had 
crowded  houses  and  most  cordial  receptions.  It 
was  not  a  new  sort  of  occupation  for  Mark  Twain. 
Back  in  the  early  days,  before  his  first  book  ap 
peared,  he  delivered  lectures  in  the  Pacific  States. 
His  powers  of  elocution  are  remarkable,  and  he 
has  long  been  considered  by  his  friends  one  of 
the  most  satisfactory  and  enjoyable  readers  of 
their  acquaintance.  His  parlor-reading  of  Shaks- 
peare  and  Browning  is  described  as  a  masterly 
performance.  He  has  hitherto  refused  to  under 
take  any  general  course  of  public  reading,  though 
very  strong  inducements  have  been  offered  to 
him  to  go  to  the  distant  English  colonies,  even  as 
far  as  Australia. 

CHARLES  HOPKINS  CLARK. 


12  s.  L.  CLEMENS  (MARK  TWAIN). 

[After  the  failure  of  the  firm  of  Charles  L. 
Webster  &  Co.,  of  which  he  was  a  member,  Mr. 
Clemens  accomplished  the  Herculean  task  of  dis 
charging  debts  not  legally  his,  by  a  lecture  tour 
in  this  country  and  in  Australia.  On  his  return 
home,  he  was  met  in  England  by  the  sad  news  of 
the  sudden  death  of  his  eldest  daughter.  After 
four  more  years  in  Europe,  for  the  most  part  in 
Vienna,  he  came  back  to  this  country.  The  Hart 
ford  home  was  left  unoccupied,  partly  on  account 
of  sad  associations,  and  the  family  spent  the 
winter  in  New  York.  They  then  leased  a  house 
at  Riverdale  on  the  Hudson,  from  where  they 
will  move  to  the  new  home  at  Tarrytown  which 
Mr.  Clemens  has  recently  bought. — EDITORS.] 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 


73 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS 

AT    WEST    NEW    BRIGHTON 

It  is  not  noticed  that  the  most  determined  fight 
ers,  both  in  battle  and  on  the  field  of  public  affairs, 
are  often  the  gentlest,  most  peaceable  men  in  pri 
vate  converse  and  at  home.  The  public  was  for  a 
long  time  accustomed  to  regard  Mr.  Curtis  as  a 
combatant;  but  many  who  know  of  him  in  that 
character  would  have  been  surprised  could  they 
have  met  him  in  the  quiet  study  on  Staten  Island, 
where  his  work  was  done. 

A  calm,  solid  figure,  of  fine  height  and  impres 
sive  carriage,  a  moderately  ruddy  complexion,  with 
snowy  side-whiskers,  and  gray  hair  parted  at  the 
crown,  gave  him  somewhat  the  appearance  that  we 
conventionally  ascribe  to  English  country  gentle 
men.  There  was  an  air  of  repose  about  the  sur 
roundings  and  the  occupant  of  the  room  where  he 
worked.  Over  the  door  hung  a  mellowed  and 
rarely  excellent  copy  of  the  Stratford  portrait  of 
Shakspeare;  shelves  filled  with  books — the  dumb 
yet  resistless  artillery  of  literature — were  placed 
in  all  the  spaces  between  the  three  windows ;  and 

75 


76  GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

other  books  and  pamphlets — the  small  arms  and 
equipments — covered  a  part  of  the  ample  table.  A 
soft-coal  fire  in  the  grate  threw  out  intermittently 
its  broad,  genial  flame,  as  if  inspired  to  illumina 
tion  by  the  gaze  of  Emerson,  or  Daniel  Webster, 
or  the  presence  of  blind  Homer,  whose  busts  were 
in  an  opposite  corner.  Altogether,  the  spot  seemed 
very  remote  from  all  loud  conflicts  of  the  time. 
There  was  none  of  that  confusion,  that  tempestuous 
disarray  of  newspapers,  common  in  the  workshops 
of  editors.  Yet  an  examination  of  the  new  books 
and  documents  which  lay  before  him  would  show 
that  Mr.  Curtis  established  here  a  sluice-way 
through  which  was  drawn  a  current  of  our  chief  lit 
erature  and  politics ;  and  some  of  the  lines  in  his 
massive  lower  face  indicated  the  resoluteness 
which  underlay  his  natural  urbanity  and  kindness. 
Although  his  father  came  from  Massachusetts  and 
he  himself  was  born  in  Providence,  Mr.  Curtis  was 
identified  with  New  York.  In  1839,  at  tne  a£e  °f 
fifteen,  he  moved  with  his  father  to  this  city. 
Three  years  later  he  enlisted  with  the  Brook  Farm 
enthusiasts,  but  in  1844  withdrew  to  Concord,  as 
Hawthorne  had  done.  There,  with  his  brother,  he 
worked  at  farming,  and  continued  to  study  until 
1846,  when  he  came  back  to  New  York,  still  bent 
upon  preparing  himself  for  a  literary  life,  though 
he  chose  not  to  go  to  college.  He  went,  instead, 
to  Europe,  remaining  there  and  in  the  East  for 


GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS.  77 

four  years,  six  months  of  which  he  spent  as  a  stu 
dent  at  the  University  of  Berlin. 

Bringing  home  copious  materials  for  the  work, 
he  wrote  the  "Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji,"  which 
the  Harpers  promptly  accepted  and  published  in 
1851,  the  author  being  then  twenty-seven.  It  is 
interesting  to  observe  that  he  never  went  through 
that  period  of  struggle  to  which  most  young  writ 
ers  must  submit;  a  fact  presaging  the  almost  un 
broken  success  of  his  later  career.  His  other  two 
books  of  travel  appeared  the  next  year,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  began  to  divide  with  Donald  G. 
Mitchell  the  writing  of  the  "  Easy  Chair  "  in  Har 
per  s  Monthly  y  which  he  afterward  took  wholly  upon 
himself  and  continued  until  his  death.  His  con 
nection  with  Harper  s  Weekly  began  in  1857,  and 
for  six  years  he  supplied  a  series  of  papers  en 
titled  "The  Lounger"  to  that  periodical.  In 
1863  he  became  its  political  editor.  Mean 
while  he  had  published  "The  Potiphar  Papers," 
the  one  successful  satire  on  social  New  York 
since  Irving's  "  Salmagundi  "  ;  also  "  Prue  and  I," 
and  "Trumps,"  his  only  attempt  at  a  novel. 
This,  too,  treats  of  New  York  life.  Finally  he 
married,  in  1856,  and  settled  on  Staten  Island, 
where  he  lived  until  he  died  in  1892,  in  a  house 
only  a  few  rods  distant  from  that  in  which  he  was 
married. 

Yet,  New  Yorker  as  he  was  by  long  association, 


78  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

residence  and  interest,  he  had  a  close  relationship 
with  Massachusetts;  partly  through  his  marriage 
into  a  Massachusetts  family  of  note — the  Shaws ; 
partly,  perhaps,  through  the  ties  formed  in  those 
idyllic  days  at  Brook  Farm  and  Concord.  And 
in  Massachusetts  he  had  another  home,  at  Ashfield, 
to  which  he  repaired  every  summer.  It  is  an  old 
farm-house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  which 
lies  among  beautiful  maple-clad  hills,  between  the 
Berkshire  valley  and  the  picturesque  neighbor 
hood  of  the  Deerfields  and  Northampton.  A  num 
ber  of  years  ago,  with  his  friend  Charles  Eliot 
Norton,  Mr.  Curtis  aided  in  founding  a  library  for 
Ashfield,  and  he  was  so  much  of  a  favorite  with 
his  neighbors  there,  that  they  were  anxious  to 
make  him  their  representative  in  Congress.  He, 
however,  seemed  to  prefer  their  friendship,  and 
the  glorious  colors  of  their  autumn  woods,  to  their 
votes.  Throughout  the  greater  part  of  the  fierce 
presidential  campaign  of  1884  Mr.  Curtis  con 
ducted  his  voluminous  work  as  editor  and  as  in 
dependent  chieftain  in  this  quiet  retreat.  In  1875 
it  was  to  him  that  Concord  turned  when  seeking 
an  orator  for  the  centenary  of  her  famous 
"  Fight " ;  and  it  was  he  again  whom  Boston,  in 
the  spring  of  1883,  invited  to  pronounce  the 
eulogy  upon  Wendell  Phillips.  These  are  rather 
striking  instances  of  Massachusetts  dependence 
on  a  New  York  author  and  orator,  discrepant 


GEORGE    WILLIAM   CURTIS.  79 

from  a  theory  which  makes  the  dependence  all 
the  other  way. 

But  Mr.  Curtis  long  since  gained  national  repu 
tation  as  a  lecturer.  His  first  venture  in  that  line 
was  "Contemporary  Art  in  Europe,"  in  1851; 
then  he  fairly  got  under  way  with  "  The  Age  of 
Steam,"  and  soon  became  one  of  that  remarkable 
group,  including  Starr  King,  Phillips  and  Beecher, 
who  built  up  the  lyceum  into  an  important  insti 
tution,  and  went  all  over  the  country  lecturing. 
Mr.  Curtis  gave  lectures  every  winter  until  1872. 
I  remember  his  saying,  some  time  before  that,  "  I 
have  to  write  and  deliver  at  least  one  sermon  a 
year  ";  and  indeed  they  were  sermons,  of  the  most 
eloquent  kind,  rife  with  noble  incitements  to  duty, 
patriotism,  lofty  thought,  ideal  conduct.  In  1859, 
at  Philadelphia,  having  long  before  engaged  to 
speak  on  "  The  Present  State  of  the  Anti-Slavery 
Question,"  he  was  told  that  it  would  not  be 
allowed.  Many  people  entreated  him  not  to  at 
tempt  it ;  but,  while  disclaiming  any  wish  to 
create  disturbance  or  to  be  martyred,  he  stated 
that  he  found  himself  forced  to  represent  the 
principle  of  free  speech,  and  that  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  shrink  from  upholding  it.  Accord 
ingly  he  began  his  lecture  from  a  platform  guard 
ed  by  double  rows  of  police.  A  tumult  was 
raised  in  the  hall,  and  a  mob  attacked  the  build 
ing  simultaneously  from  without,  intending  to  seize 


8o  GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

the  speaker  and  hang  him.  For  twenty  minutes 
he  waited  silently,  while  vitriol-bottles  and  brick 
bats  were  showered  through  the  windows,  and  the 
police  fought  the  rioters  in  both  hall  and  street. 
The  disturbance  quelled,  he  went  on  for  an  hour, 
saying  all  that  he  had  to  say,  amid  alternate  hisses 
and  applause,  and  with  the  added  emphasis  of  mis 
siles  from  lingering  rioters  smashing  the  window 
glass.  Is  it  surprising  that  this  man  should  have 
the  courage  to  rise  and  shout  out  a  solitary  "  No," 
against  the  hundreds  of  a  State  convention,  or  that 
he  should  have  dared  to  "  bolt "  the  Presidential 
nomination  of  his  party,  in  spite  of  jeers  and 
sneers  and  cries  of  treachery  ? 

Mr.  Curtis 's  adversaries,  in  whatever  else  they 
may  have  been  right,  were  apt  to  make  two  serious 
mistakes  about  him.  One  was,  that  they  considered 
him  a  dilettante  in  politics ;  the  other,  that  they  over 
looked  his  "staying-power."  For  over  thirty-four 
years  he  not  only  closely  studied  and  wrote  upon  our 
politics,  but  he  also  took  an  active  share  in  them. 

For  twenty-five  years  he  was  the  chairman  of  a 
local  Republican  committee;  he  made  campaign 
speeches;  he  sat  in  conventions;  he  influenced 
thousands  of  votes.  Moreover,  his  views  tri 
umphed.  They  did  so  in  the  anti- slavery  cause ; 
they  did  so  in  the  Civil  Service  Reform  movement, 
and  in  the  Independent  movement  of  1 884.  Surely 
that  is  not  the  record  of  a  dilettante.  He  never 


GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS.  81 

pulled  wires,  nor  did  he  seek  office;  that  is  all. 
Once  he  ran  for  Congress  in  a  Democratic  district, 
sure  of  defeat,  but  wishing  to  have  a  better  chance, 
as  candidate,  for  speech-making.  He  took  the 
chairmanship  of  the  Civil  Service  Advisory  Board 
as  an  imperative  duty,  and  resigned  it  as  soon  as 
he  saw  its  futility  under  President  Grant's  rule. 
Seward  wanted  to  make  him  Consul- General  in 
Egypt;  Mr.  Hayes  offered  him  the  mission  to 
England,  and  again  that  to  Germany;  but  he  re 
fused  each  one.  His  only  political  ambition  was 
to  instil  sound  principles,  and  to  oppose  practical 
patriotism  to  "practical  politics."  Honorary  dis 
tinctions  he  was  willing  to  accept,  in  another  field. 
He  was  an  LL.D.  of  Harvard,  Brown  and  Madison 
universities ;  and  in  1 864  he  was  appointed  a  Re 
gent  of  the  University  of  New  York,  in  the  line 
of  succession  to  John  Jay,  Chancellor  Kent  and 
Gulian  Verplanck.  This,  it  seems  to  me,  was  a  very 
fit  association,  for  Mr.  Curtis  was  attached  by  his 
qualities  of  integrity  and  refinement  to  the  best 
representatives  of  New  York.  The  idea  often  oc 
curs  to  one,  that  he,  more  than  any  one  else,  con 
tinued  the  example  which  Washington  Irving  set; 
an  example  of  kindliness  and  good-nature  blended 
with  indestructible  dignity,  and  of  a  delicately  im 
aginative  mind  consecrating  much  of  its  energy  to 
public  service. 

A  teacher  of  a  true  State  policy,  rather  than  a 


82  GEORGE    WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

statesman — an  inspiring  leader,  more  than  he  was 
an  organizer  or  executant — he  yet  did  much  hard 
work  in  organizing,  and  tried  to  perpetuate  the  de 
sirable  tradition  that  culture  should  be  joined  to 
questions  of  right  in  Government,  and  of  the  popu 
lar  weal.  Twenty  years  a  lecturer,  without  rest ; 
twenty- five  years  a  political  editor ;  thirty-six  years 
the  suave  and  genial  occupant  of  the  "  Easy  Chair" ; 
always  steadfast  to  the  highest  aims,  and  ignoring 
unworthy  slurs ; — may  we  not  say  reasonably  that 
he  had  "  staying  power  "  ?  One  source  of  it  was 
to  be  found  in  the  serene  cheer  of  his  family  life  in 
that  Staten  Island  cottage  to  which  he  clung  so 
closely,  and  among  the  well-loved  Ashfield  hills, 
where  he  long  continued  to  show  that  power. 
GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 


DR.  EDWARD  EGGLESTON 


DR.  EDWARD  EGGLESTON 

AT    LAKE    GEORGE 

Owl's  Nest,  the  summer  retreat  of  Dr.  Edward 
Eggleston,  is  picturesquely  situated  on  Dunham's 
Bay,  an  arm  of  Lake  George  that  deeply  indents 
the  land  on  the  southeastern  shore  of  the  lake. 
This  site  was  chosen  partly  because  the  land 
hereabout  is  owned  by  his  son-in-law,  and  partly 
because  of  the  seclusion  the  place  affords  from 
the  main  current  of  summer  business  and  travel. 
With  the  utmost  freedom  of  choice,  a  spot  better 
suited  to  the  needs  of  a  literary  worker  with  a 
family  could  hardly  have  been  selected  within 
the  entire  thirty-six  miles  covering  the  length  of 
Lake  George.  Here,  a  few  years  ago,  among 
black  rocks,  green  woods,  and  blue  waters,  all  per 
vaded  by  the  breath  of  balsam,  cedar,  and  pine, 
the  author  of  "The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  after 
various  flights  to  other  northern  places  of  resort, 
built  the  nest  which  he  has  since  continued  to 
occupy  during  six  months  of  the  year  (with  the 
exception  of  one  year  spent  abroad),  and  in 
which  he  does  the  better  part  of  his  literary  work, 
with  material  about  him  prepared  at  his  winter 

85 


86  DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

home  in  Brooklyn.  Owl's  Nest  (doubtless  jocose 
ly  so-called  because  of  the  utter  absence  from  it 
of  everything  owlish)  consists  of  three  architect 
urally  unique  and  tasteful  buildings,  occupying  a 
natural  prominence  on  the  western  shore  of  the 
bay.  One,  the  family  cottage,  is  a  handsome- 
looking  and  commodious  structure  of  wood,  lib 
erally  furnished  in  a  manner  becoming  the  ar 
tistic  and  literary  proclivities  of  its  occupants.  A 
little  below  this,  to  the  right,  and  nearer  the  lake 
shore,  is  a  summer  boarding-house,  built  by  the 
owner  of  the  farm  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
friends  and  admirers  of  Dr.  Eggleston,  who  an 
nually  follow  his  flight  into  the  country — so  im 
possible,  as  it  would  seem,  is  it  to  escape  the  con 
sequences  of  fame.  The  third  and  most  striking 
structure  upon  the  grounds  is  Dr.  Eggleston's 
workshop  and  library — his  lasting  and  peculiar 
mark  on  the  shores  of  Lake  George,  and  the  most 
prominent  and  elaborate  piece  of  work  of  its  kind 
to  be  found  anywhere  in  northern  New  York. 
This  was  laid  out  by  a  Springfield,  Mass.,  archi 
tect,  after  plans  of  the  proprietor's  own.  It  is 
built  of  brown  sandstone  quarried  on  the  spot, 
and  laid  by  local  stone-workers,  finished  in  native 
chestnut  and  cherry  by  home  mechanics,  and  dec 
orated  without  with  designs,  and  within  with 
carvings,  by  the  hand  of  the  author's  artist-daugh 
ter,  Allegra.  Thus  are  secured  for  it  at  once  a 


DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  87 

sturdy  native  character  of  its  own,  and  a  sylvan 
harmony  and  grace  most  pleasing  to  the  fancy. 
Within  this  stronghold  are  arranged  in  due  order 
the  weapons  of  the  literary  champion — historian, 
novelist,  and  essayist — as  well  as  the  tools  of  his 
daughter,  who  has  long  been  working  in  conjunc 
tion  with  her  father  in  the  production  of  the  illus 
trated  novel,  "The  Graysons,"  given  to  the  world 
in  1888. 

It  is  into  this  stronghold  that  one  is  conducted 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  after  the  usual  hearty 
hand-shake  ;  especially  if  one's  visit  relates  in  any 
way  to  things  literary,  or  to  questions  that  are 
easiest  settled  in  an  atmosphere  of  books.  You 
are  led  through  a  door  opening  at  the  rear  of  the 
building,  toward  the  cottage ;  immediately  op 
posite  to  which,  upon  entering,  appears  the  en 
trance  to  the  artist's  studio ;  thence  along  a  narrow 
passage  traversing  the  length  of  the  west  wall  and 
lined  to  the  ceiling  with  books,  through  a  door 
way  concealed  by  a  pair  of  heavy  dropping  cur 
tains,  and  into  the  author's  study,  occupying  the 
south  end  of  the  building.  Here  you  are  seated 
in  a  soft  chair  beside  a  deep,  red  brick  fireplace 
(adorned  with  andirons  and  other  appurtenances 
of  ancient  pattern,  captured  from  some  old  colo 
nial  mansion),  and  before  a  modern  bay-window 
opening  to  the  south. 

This  window  is,  structurally,  the  chief  glory  and 


88  DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

ornament  of  Dr.  Eggleston's  study — broad,  deep, 
and  high,  filling  fully  one-third  of  the  wall-space 
in  the  south  end,  and  so  letting  into  the  room, 
as  it  were,  a  good  portion  of  all  out-doors.  From 
this  window  is  obtained  a  charming  view  of  the 
finest  points  in  the  surrounding  scenery.  Directly 
in  front  stretches  out  for  miles  to  the  southward 
a  broad  expanse  of  marsh,  through  which  winds 
in  sinuous  curves  a  sluggish  creek  that  ends  its 
idling  course  where  the  line  of  blue  water  meets 
the  rank  green  of  the  swale.  Just  here  extends 
from  shore  to  shore  a  long  causeway  of  stone  and 
timber,  over  which  runs  the  highway  through  the 
neighborhood.  Flanking  the  morass  on  each  side 
are  two  parallel  lines  of  mountains,  looking  blue 
and  hazy  and  serene  on  a  still  day,  but  marvel- 
ously  savage  and  wild  and  threatening  when  a 
storm  is  raging.  These  are,  respectively,  the 
French  Mountain  spur  on  the  west ;  and  on  the 
east  a  long  chain  of  high  peaks,  which  begins 
with  the  Sugar  Loaf,  three  miles  inland,  ap 
proaches  the  eastern  shore,  and  forms  with  the 
grand  peaks  of  Black,  Buck  and  Finch  mountains 
a  magnificent  border  to  the  lake  as  far  down  as 
the  Narrows,  where  it  terminates  in  the  bold  and 
picturesque  rock  of  Tongue  Mountain. 

This  view  constitutes  almost  the  whole  outlook 
from  the  spot,  which  is  otherwise  encroached  upon 
by  an  intricate  tangle  of  untamed  nature — woods, 


DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  8^ 

cliffs  and  ravines,  that  back  it  up  on  the  west,  and 
flank  it  on  either  side  down  to  the  water's  edge. 
Turning  from  the  view  of  things  outside  to  con 
sider  the  things  within,  you  find  yourself,  apart 
from  the  necessary  furniture  of  the  room,  walled 
in  by  books,  to  apparently  interminable  heights 
and  lengths.  I  think  Dr.  Eggleston  told  me  he 
has  here  something  like  four  thousand  volumes, 
perhaps  one-fourth  of  which  may  be  classed  as 
general  literature  ;  the  rest  being  volumes  old  and 
new,  of  ever  conceivable  date,  style  and  condition, 
bearing  upon  the  subject  of  colonial  history. 
These  have  been  gathered  at  immense  pains 
from  the  libraries  and  bookstalls  of  Europe  and 
America.  In  his  special  field  of  work  Dr.  Eggle 
ston  long  ago  proved  himself  a  profound  student 
and  a  thorough  and  successful  operator.  But  if 
books  tire  you,  there  is  at  hand  a  most  interesting 
collection  of  souvenirs  of  foreign  travel — pictures, 
casts,  quaint  manuscripts,  etc. — besides  rare  auto 
graphs,  curios,  and  relics  of  every  sort,  gathered 
from  everywhere,  all  of  which  he  shows  you  with 
every  effort  and  desire  to  entertain.  In  common 
with  other  distinguished  persons,  Dr.  Eggleston 
has  undergone  persecution  by  the  inveterate  col 
lector  of  autographs.  One  claimant  for  a  speci 
men  of  his  penmanship,  writing  from  somewhere 
in  the  Dominion,  solicited  a  "few  lines"  to  adorn 
his  album  withal ;  whereupon  he  went  to  his  desk 


9°  DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

and,  taking  a  blank  sheet,  drew  with  pen  and  ink 
two  parallel  black  lines  across  it,  added  his  signa 
ture,  and  mailed  it  promptly  to  the  enclosed 
address. 

The  work  upon  which  Dr.  Eggleston  is  engaged 
("  Life  in  the  Thirteen  Colonies  ")  has  already  oc 
cupied  him  over  six  years,  and  he  estimates  that 
it  will  be  nearly  six  years  more  ere  it  is  completed. 
Chapters  of  it  have  been  appearing  from  time  to 
time,  during  its  composition,  in  The  Century  mag 
azine  ;  and  the  first  completed  volume  is  now  in 
the  possession  of  The  Century  Co.  for  early  publi 
cation.  It  is  distinctively  a  history  of  the  people 
in  their  struggle  for  empire ;  recording  to  the 
minutest  details  their  public  and  domestic  life 
and  affairs,  treating  exhaustively  of  their  manners, 
customs,  politics,  wars,  religion,  manufactures,  and 
agriculture,  showing  in  what  they  failed  and  in 
what  succeeded.  All  this  is  wrought  out  in  a 
vivid  style,  and  possesses  the  interest  and  vigor 
of  a  romance.  This  has  been  his  chief  work. 
Otherwise  he  has  contributed  to  the  periodicals  a 
large  number  of  essays,  short  stories,  etc.,  and 
has  lately  (by  way  of  recreation)  prepared  a 
youth's  history  of  the  American  settlements,  for 
school  use.  His  working-hours  are  from  eight  in 
the  morning  till  two  in  the  afternoon,  during 
which  time  he  sticks  to  his  desk,  where  he  is  to 
be  found  every  day  except  Sunday,  apparently 


DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  9I 

hopelessly  entangled  in  a  thicket  of  notes  and 
references,  in  manuscript  and  in  print,  which  besets 
him  on  all  sides.  But  to  the  worker  there,  each 
stack  is  a  trusted  tool  on  which  he  lays  his  hand 
unerringly  when  it  is  wanted.  He  has  perfected 
a  system  of  note-making  which  reduces  the  labor 
of  reference  to  a  minimum,  while  a  type-writer 
performs  for  him  the  mechanical  part  of  the  work. 
His  afternoons  are  given  to  socialities  and  recrea 
tion.  His  four  little  grandchildren  come  in  for  a 
large  share  of  his  leisure  time  ;  and  it  is  a  good 
thing  to  see  them  all  rolling  together  on  the  study 
floor  and  making  the  place  ring  with  their  merri 
ment. 

I  have  seen  in  one  of  the  older  anthologies  a 
poem  entitled  "The  Helper,"  of  which  I  remember 
these  words  : 

"  There  was  a  man,  a  prince  among  his  kind, 
And  he  was  called  the  Helper." 

These  verses,  ever  since  I  read  them,  have  had 
a  certain  fascination  for  me.  There  is  that  in 
them  suggestive  of  the  flavor  of  rare  old  wine. 
There  are  helpers  and  helpers,  from  some  types  of 
which  we  pray  evermore  to  be  delivered.  But 
there  are  the  true,  the  born  helpers,  whom  those 
in  need  of  effectual  advice  and  furtherance  should 
as  heartily  pray  to  fall  into  the  way  of.  These 
last  do  not  always  appear  duly  classified,  labeled 
and  shelved,  to  be  taken  down  in  answer  to  all 


92  DR.    EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

trivial  and  promiscuous  complaints,  since,  as  has 
been  noted,  the  true  helper  always  proceeds,  not 
by  system,  but  by  instinct,  which  through  practice 
becomes  in  him  unerring,  and  sufficient  to  guide 
him  without  stumbling.  Such  a  helper  is  Edward 
Eggleston.  He  is  a  philanthropist  who  exists 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  doing  good  to  his  fellows, 
and  who  grows  fat  in  doing  it.  It  is  a  destiny 
from  which  he  can  not  escape,  and  would  not  if 
he  could. 

One  who  observes  much  has  often  to  deplore 
the  absence  from  our  modern  life  and  institutions 
of  any  sphere  large  enough  for  the  exercise  and 
display  of  the  full  sum  of  the  powers  and  faculties 
of  any  of  our  recent  or  contemporary  great  men 
of  the  people.  Compare  one  of  our  most  gifted 
men  with  the  stage  upon  which  he  is  compelled 
to  act,  and  the  disproportion  is  startling.  How 
much  that  is  above  price  is  thus  lost  beyond  re 
covery,  and  often  how  little  we  get  from  such 
beyond  the  results  of  some  special  popular 
talent,  perhaps  itself  not  representative  of  the 
strongest  faculties  of  the  person.  I  first  got  ac 
quainted  with  Dr.  Eggleston  through  his  novels 
"  The  Circuit  Rider  "  and  "  Roxy,"  and  being  then 
in  the  novel-reading  phase  of  intellectual  devel 
opment,  I  of  course  believed  them  unrivaled  in 
contemporary  literature,  as  they  fairly  are  of  their 
kind.  My  enthusiasm  lasted  till  I  heard  him 


DR.    EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  93 

preach  from  the  pulpit,  and  straightway  my  ad 
miration  for  the  writer  was  lost  in  astonishment 
at  the  preacher.  Never  had  I  heard  such  ser 
mons  ;  and  I  still  believe  I  never  have.  But  upon 
closer  acquaintance,  my  astonishment  at  the 
preacher  was  swallowed  up  in  wonder  at  the  con 
versational  powers  of  my  new  friend.  Never  had 
I  heard  such  a  talker — never  have  I  heard  such  a 
one.  But  the  best  unveiling  was  the  last,  when  I 
discovered  under  all  these  multifarous  aspects  the 
characteristics  and  attributes  of  a  born  philan 
thropist.  Hitherto  I  had  known  only  the  writer, 
the  preacher,  and  the  talker ;  now  I  began  to 
know  the  man. 

In  Paris,  London,  Venice,  Florence,  in  the  re 
mote  towns  and  villages  of  England  and  the  Con 
tinent,  wherever  it  has  been  the  fortune  of  Dr. 
Eggleston  to  pitch  his  tent  fora  season,  his  domi 
cile  has  everywhere  been  known  and  frequented 
by  those  in  need  of  spiritual  or  material  comfort ; 
and  few  of  such  have  ever  had  occasion  -to  corm 
plain  of  failure  in  getting  their  reasonable  wants 
satisfied.  In  these  dispensations  he  has  the 
warmest  encouragement  and  support  of  Mrs.  Eg 
gleston  and  their  daughters,  by  whom  these 
beautiful  and  humane  traits  are  fully  shared.  I 
once  expressed  my  wonder  as  to  how,  amidst  the 
severest  professional  labors,  he  could  stand  so 
much  of  this  extraneous  work,  without  detriment 


94  DR.  EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

to  his  constitution.  "  What !  do  you  call  that 
work?"  was  the  characteristic  answer.  Fortu 
nately  a  splendid  physique  defeats  the  ill-effects 
that  would  seem  inevitable.  And  indeed  every 
literary  man  should  possess  the  nerves  of  a  farmer 
and  the  physique  of  a  prize-fighter  as  a  natural 
basis  of  success.  Dr.  Eggleston  is  a  good  sailor 
and  an  expert  climber,  and  with  these  accomplish 
ments,  and  a  perpetually  cheerful  humor,  he 
manages  to  keep  his  body  in  trim.  He  can  row 
you  out  to  Joshua's  Rock,  or  to  Caldwell,  if  that 
lies  in  your  way  ;  or  lead  you  with  unerring  pre 
cision  through  tangled  labyrinths,  to  visit  the 
choice  nooks  and  scenes  of  the  neighborhood, 
such  as  the  lovely  Paradise,  the  dark  Inferno,  and 
the  mysterious  Dark  Brook. 

There  is  something  broadly  and  deeply  elemen 
tal  in  Dr.  Eggleston's  joyous  appreciation  of  na 
ture,  his  touching  love  of  little  children,  and  his 
insight  into  the  springs  of  animal  life.  His  home 
habits  are  simple  and  beautiful,  abounding  in  all 
the  Christian  graces,  courtesies,  and  cordialities 
which  help  to  maintain  the  ideal  household. 
Everybody  knows  something  of  his  personal  ap 
pearance,  if  not  by  sight,  then  by  report — the 
great  bulk  of  frame,  the  large  leonine  head,  now 
slightly  grizzled,  the  deep,  sharp,  kindly  eyes,  the 
movements  deliberate  but  not  slow;  and  more, 
perhaps,  of  his  conversation — precise,  rapid,  mul- 


DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON.  95 

tifarious,  swarming  with  ideas  and  the  sugges 
tions  of  things  which  the  rapidity  of  his  utterance 
prevents  him  from  elaborating — original,  opulent 
of  forms,  rich  in  quotation  and  allusion.  And 
then  the  laugh — vast,  inspiriting,  uplifting.  But 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  friendship  becoming  too 
friendly ! 

O.  C.  AURINGER. 


[Nearly  a  third  of  Dr.  Eggleston's  mature  life 
has  been  covered  by  the  period  since  this  article 
was  written,  and  during  this  period  his  most  fin 
ished  literary  work  has  been  produced.  "  The 
Faith  Doctor,"  his  last  novel,  was  published  in 
1891;  a  few  years  later  two  school  readers  for 
young  children,  "Stories  of  American  Life  and 
Adventure  "  and  "  Stories  of  Great  Americans  for 
Little  Americans "  appeared.  These  books  the 
author  estimates  highly.  In  1 899  "  The  Beginners 
of  a  Nation"  was  published,  and  in  1901  "The 
Transit  of  Civilization,". — the  crowning  labor  of  his 
life  and  the  outcome  of  historical  researches  which 
he  has  been  carrying  on  for  twenty  years.  The 
year  just  past  has  been  devoted  to  the  preparation 
of  a  new  school  history  of  the  United  States.  Dr. 
Eggleston's  health  is  unstable,  and  he  may  not 
continue  his  writing,  but  he  has  in  contemplation 
a  volume  relating  to  life  in  the  United  States  in 


96  DR.   EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

the  seventeenth  century,  and  also  a  somewhat 
autobiographical  work,  not  so  much  concerning 
himself  as  phases  of  life  that  he  has  seen. — 
EDITORS.] 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 


97 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 

ON    ROXBURY    HEIGHTS,    BOSTON 

The  pulpit  of  Boston — what  a  fellowship  of 
goodly  names  the  phrase  recalls !  Knotty  old 
stub-twist  Cotton  Mather, 

"  With  his  wonderful  inkhorn  at  his  side  "; 

saintly  Ellery  Channing ;  courtly  Edward  Ever 
ett  ;  soaring  Emerson  ;  sledge-hammer  Beecher, 
ptre ;  Parker,  the  New  England  Luther;  golden- 
mouthed  Starr  King ;  mystic,  Oriental  Weiss ; 
Freeman  Clarke — steady  old  "Saint  James"; 
Father  Taylor,  the  Only ;  quaint,  erratic  Bartol, 
the  last  of  the  Transcendentalists ;  impetuous 
Phillips  Brooks ;  and  manly,  practical  Everett 
Hale.  Can  you  measure  the  light  they  have 
spread  around — its  range,  its  brilliancy  ?  The 
Christian  pulpit  of  Boston  has  been  a  diadem  of 
light  to  half  the  world.  It  has  been  distinctively 
not  an  ecclesiastical,  but  a  patriotic,  educational, 
and  intellectual  force.  Yet,  out  of  the  whole 
cluster  of  preacher-authors,  one  can  strictly  claim 
for  literature  only  our  American  Kingsley — Ed 
ward  Everett  Hale.  It  is  not  so  much  by  war- 

99 


ioo  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

rant  of  his  studies  in  Spanish  history  that  we 
class  him  among  the  literati — although  in  some 
degree  he  has  proved  the  successor  of  Prescott 
in  this  field,  and  has  lately  prepared  "  The 
Story  of  Spain  "  for  Putnam's  Nations  Series  ;  but 
it  is  in  virtue  of  his  novels,  his  help-stories  for 
young  folks,  and  his  books  of  travel. 

Mr.  Hale's  home  is  in  Roxbury  (the  "  High 
land  "  region),  five-minutes'  ride,  by  steam  car, 
from  the  heart  of  Boston.  "  Rocksbury,"  as  it 
was  spelled  in  the  old  documents,  is  a  rocky  and 
craggy  place,  as  its  name  indicates.  If  you  are 
curious  to  know  where  the  rocks  came  from,  just 
turn  to  Dr.  Holmes's  "  Dorchester  Giant,"  and 
read  about  that  plum-pudding,  as  big  as  the 
State  House  dome,  which  was  demolished  by  the 
giant's  wife  and  screaming  boys : 

"  They  flung  it  over  to  Roxbury  hills, 

They  flung  it  over  the  plain, 
And  all  over  Milton  and  Dorchester  too 
Great  lumps  of  pudding  the  giants  threw  ; 
They  tumbled  as  thick  as  rain." 

Speaking  of  rocks,  there  is  still  to  be  seen, 
hardly  a  stone's-throw  beyond  Mr.  Hale's  resi 
dence,  a  natural  Cyclopean  wall — sheer,  somber, 
Dantesque,  overgrown  with  wilding  shrubs,  the 
rocks  cramped  and  locked  together  in  the  joints 
and  interspaces  by  the  contorted  roots  of  huge 
black  and  scarlet  oaks,  which,  directly  they 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE.  IOI 

emerge  from  the  almost  perpendicular  cliff,  turn 
and  shoot  straight  up  toward  the  zenith.  On  the 
summit  of  these  rocks  is  the  Garrison  residence, 
presented  to  the  anti-slavery  agitator  by  his  ad 
mirers,  and  now  the  home  of  his  son,  Mr.  Francis 
J.  Garrison.  Other  neighbors  of  Mr.  Hale  are 
William  Lloyd  Garrison,  Jr.,  and  the  venerable 
Charles  K.  Dillaway,  President  of  the  Boston 
Latin  School  Association,  and  master  of  the 
school  fifty  years  ago,  when  young  Hale  was 
conjugating  his  rvTtrcD  rvipoo  on  its  old  teetering 
settees.  Mr.  Dillaway  bears  his  years  well,  and 
recently  celebrated  his  golden  wedding.  They 
have  a  well-combed  and  fruity  look,  these  old 
walled  and  terraced  lawns  and  gardens  of  steep 
Roxbury  Height.  In  the  Loring,  the  Hallowell, 
and  the  Auchmuty  houses,  and  in  Shirley  Hall, 
there  yet  remain  traces  of  the  slave-holding  Puri 
tan  aristocracy  of  two  centuries  ago.  The  Hale 
residence,  by  its  old-time  hugeness  and  architec 
tural  style,  seems  as  if  it  ought  to  be  storied  in  a 
double  sense  ;  but  it  really  has  no  history  other 
than  that  which  its  present  occupant  is  giving  it. 
It  is  none  too  large  for  one  who  has  seen  grow 
up  in  it  a  family  of  five  sons  and  a  daughter, — 
none  too  large  (if  one  may  judge  from  the  plethoric 
library)  for  its  owner's  ever-growing  collection  of 
books  and  manuscripts.  The  house,  which  is  of 
a  cream  color  with  salmon  facings,  is  set  back 


102  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

from  the  street  some  fifty  feet,  affording  a  small 
front  lawn,  divided  from  the  sidewalk  by  a  row 
of  trees.  The  second-story  front  windows  are 
beneath  the  roof  of  the  great  Doric  porch,  and 
between  the  pillars  of  this  porch  clamber  the  five- 
leaved  woodbine  and  the  broad-leaved  aristolo- 
chia,  or  Dutchman's  pipe.  It  is  characteristic  of 
Mr.  Hale  that  he  supports  in  his  Roxbury  home 
an  old,  an  almost  decrepit  man-servant,  who  has 
lived  with  him  for  half  a  lifetime,  and  may  be,  for 
all  I  know,  the  original  of  "  My  Double."  A  pic 
ture  of  this  "  Old  Retainer  "  was  exhibited  by 
Mr.  Hale's  daughter  this  year  in  the  Paris  Salon, 
over  the  title  of  "  A  New  England  Winter."  I 
may,  perhaps,  be  pardoned  for  mentioning,  in  this 
connection,  that  Mrs.  Hale  is,  on  the  mother's 
side,  a  Beecher — the  niece  of  Henry  Ward 
Beecher — and  inherits  the  moral  enthusiasm  of 
that  religious  family. 

To  return  to  Mr.  Hale.  As  for  his  library,  it 
may  be  said  that,  like  his  own  exterior,  his  think 
ing-shop  is  plain  and  little  adorned.  It  is  his 
nacre  shell  lined  with  the  fair  pearl  of  his  thought. 
The  room  is  just  back  of  one  of  the  large  front 
drawing-rooms,  and  "  gives  "  upon  a  little  cul-de- 
sac  of  a  side-street.  It  is  a  small  room,  and  is 
crammed  with  plain  bookshelves  and  cases  of 
drawers.  In  this  room  most  of  Mr.  Hale's  writ 
ing  is  done.  He  has  a  good  collection  of  books 


EDWARD  EVERETT  If  ALE.  103 

and  maps  relating  to  Spanish-American  subjects. 
Among  these  is  &  fac-simile  of  Cortez's  autograph 
map  of  Lower  California,  made  for  Mr.  Hale  by 
order  of  the  Spanish  Government  from  the  orig 
inal  copy  preserved  in  the  national  archives. 

Mr.  Hale  being,  by  his  own  frequent  confessions, 
the  most  terribly  be-bored  man  in  the  universe, 
and  having  always  had  a  hankering  after  Syba 
ritic  islands  where  map-peddlers,  book  agents, 
and  pious  beggars  might  never  mark  his  flight  to 
do  him  wrong,  it  seemed  providential,  in  a  two 
fold  sense,  that  a  wealthy  friend  in  Roger  Wil- 
liams's  city,  the  writer  of  a  work  on  the  labor 
question,  should  have  carried  out  the  brilliant 
idea  of  building  the  hard-worked  author  a  sum 
mer  retreat  in  the  soft  sea-air  of  Rhode  Island. 
For  the  dreary  romance  of  the  Newport  region — 
its  vast,  warm,  obliterating  Gulf  Stream  fogs,  and 
the  crusty  lichens  that  riot  and  wax  fat  in  the 
moisty  strength  thereof,  the  warm  tints  of  rock 
and  sky,  naiad  caves  and  tangled  wrack  and  shell, 
and  reveries  by  fire  of  flotage  wood — you  must 
peep  into  Colonel  Higginson's  "  Oldport  Days" 
or  Mr.  Hale's  "  Christmas  in  Narragansett."  The 
latter  book  is  full  of  charming  description  and 
autobiographical  chit-chat.  Manuntuck,  where 
for  twelve  years  the  Hales  have  summered,  is  a 
little  hamlet  to  the  south  of  Newport  and  far 
down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay.  It  is  six 


104  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

or  eight  miles  from  anywhere  ;  it  is  almost  at  the 
jumping-off  point ;  if  the  organizer  of  charities 
gets  there,  he  will  either  have  to  walk  or  hire  a 
team.  The  real  southern  limit  of  New  England, 
according  to  Mr.  Hale,  is  formed  by  a  certain 
"long  comb  of  little  hills,  of  which  the  ends  are 
gray  stones  separate  from  each  other."  On  a 
high  ridge  of  these  hills  is  Colonel  Ingham's 
cottage.  In  front  of  the  house  is  the  geological 
beach,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  wide.  In  good 
weather  Montauk  Point — the  end  of  Long  Island 
— is  visible,  as  is  also  Gay's  Head  on  Martha's 
Vineyard.  Just  back  of  the  house  is  a  lovely 
lake,  and  further  back  are  other  lakes  bordered  by 
swamps  filled  with  pink  and  white  rhododendrons, 
and  many  plants  interesting  to  botanists.  It  is 
the  region  dwelt  in  of  old  by  the  Narragansett  In 
dians.  The  swamp  where  in  1675  the  great  bat 
tle  was  fought  is  not  far  away.  The  Indians 
called  the  region  Pettaquamscut. 

Mr.  Hale  is  not  reserved  about  himself  in  his 
books.  But  in  his  fictitious  writings  you  must 
beware  of  taking  him  too  literally.  He  hates  to 
wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve.  When  you  imagine 
that  at  last  he  is  standing  before  you  in  proprid 
persona — whish !  he  claps  on  his  magic  cap, 
with  a  thimbleful  of  fern-seed  sewed  in  it,  and 
fades  from  your  sight  or  recognition.  He  has  re 
cently  told  us  of  his  habits  of  work,  and  how  he 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE.  105 

sleeps  and  eats.  What  he  says  goes  far  toward 
explaining  how  he  can  throw  off  such  amazing 
quantities  of  work.  A  man  who  eats  five  times  a 
day,  sleeps  nine  hours  (including,  with  tolerable 
regularity,  an  hour  after  dinner),  and  takes  plenty 
of  out-door  exercise,  can  perform  as  much  as  half 
a  dozen  dyspeptic,  half-starved  night-moths.  Mr. 
Hale,  it  seems,  does  his  writing  and  thinking 
in  the  lump,  working  his  way  regularly  by  a  dead 
lift  of  three  hours  a  day — inclusive,  often,  of  a 
half  or  a  full  hour's  bout  before  breakfast — the 
early  work  based  upon  a  Frulistiick  of  coffee  and 
biscuit.  Another  secret  of  his  power  to  produce 
work  is  his  habit  of  getting  others,  especially 
young  people,  to  work  for  him.  For  at  least  thir 
teen  years  he  has  employed  an  amanuensis  for  a 
part  of  his  writings.  If  he  wishes  to  edit,  in  com 
pact  shape,  certain  hearty  and  relishing  old  narra 
tives,  he  sets  his  young  friends  to  reading  for 
him,  and  by  their  joint  labors  the  work  is  done. 
His  "  Family  Flight  "  series  of  travels  (which  we 
are  given  to  understand  has  been  quite  success 
ful)  is  the  joint  work  of  himself  and  his  traveled 
sister.  In  short,  he  takes  all  the  help  he  can  get, 
printed  or  personal,  for  whatever  writing  he  has  on 
hand.  Mr.  Hale  takes  his  exercise  chiefly  by 
walking,  or  in  the  horse-cars,  as  business  or  pro 
fessional  duty  calls  him  hither  and  thither.  As  a 
hunger-producer  the  average  suburban  horse-car 


106  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

line  of  Boston  is  scarcely  excelled  by  a  corduroy 
road  or  a  mud  avenue  of  New  Orleans ;  and  the 
bracing  sea-air  of  the  Boston  Highlands  adds  its 
whet  and  stimulant. 

When  a  young  man  of  eighteen,  Hale  had  the 
same  fluent  speech,  the  same  gift  of  telling,  im 
promptu  oratory,  that  makes  him  to-day  so  much 
sought  after  as  the  spokesman  of  this  cause  and 
that.  He  likes  to  be  at  a  meeting  of  the  Massa 
chusetts  Historical  Society,  or  the  Oriental  So 
ciety  at  Worcester,  but  finds  it  not  profitable  or 
possible  regularly  to  attend  clubs  or  ministers' 
meetings.  Like  the  two  earthenware  pots  float 
ing  down  the  stream  of  ^Esop's  fable,  there  are  in 
Mr.  Hale's  nature  two  clashing  master-traits — the 
social,  humanitarian,  and  democratic  instinct,  and 
the  dignified  reserve  and  exclusiveness  of  the 
Edward  Everett  strain  in  his  blood.  He  is  a  tre 
mendous  social  magnet  turning  now  its  attracting 
and  now  its  repelling  pole  to  the  world ;  to-day 
bringing  comfort  and  hope  to  a  score  of  drown 
ing  wretches,  and  to-morrow  barricading  himself 
in  his  study  and  sending  off  to  the  printer  pas 
sionate  and  humorous  invectives  against  the  in 
effable  brood  of  the  world's  bores.  It  is  natur 
ally,  therefore,  a  rather  formidable  matter  for  a 
stranger  to  get  access  to  the  penetralia  of  the 
Roxbury  mansion. 

A  certain  lady  friend  of  Mr.  Hale's  was  much 


EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


107 


disturbed  by  the  above  statement  when  it  first 
appeared  in  The  Critic.  She  affirms  that  the 
Doctor  is  a  very  approachable  man.  The  follow 
ing  quotation  from  a  letter  of  her  niece  (who,  out 
of  friendship  for  Mr.  Hale,  gives  part  of  her  time 
to  helping  him  in  his  work)  certainly  seems  irre 
futable  testimony  in  her  favor : — "  I  was  at  Mr. 
Hale's  to-day  from  eleven  to  one  o'clock.  He 
receives  an  immense  number  of  letters  on  all 
sorts  of  subjects,  particularly  charity  undertak 
ings,  and  we  register  them  for  him  (I  with  three 
other  girls)  in  a  blank-book,  so  that  he  can  refer 
to  them  at  any  time.  He  is  very  methodical ;  he 
is,  indeed,  a  wonderful  man,  and  you  can  realize 
the  vast  amount  of  work  he  does,  by  sitting  an 
hour  in  the  room  with  him  and  hearing  ring  after 
ring  at  the  front  door.  One  man  wants  a  place 
as  coachman  ;  then  comes  a  woman  wishing  a  let 
ter  of  introduction  ;  and  I  could  fill  a  page  with 
the  different  requests,  all  listened  to  with  so  much 
patience,  and  immediately  attended  to."  Yet  I 
know  of  a  man  who  called  five  times  in  the  vain 
endeavor  to  see  Mr.  Hale  and  get  him  to  marry 
him.  At  last,  in  his  despair,  he  went  to  a  friend 
of  the  "Colonel's,"  a  lady  who  bravely  volun 
teered  to  storm  the  castle  in  the  prospective 
bridegroom's  behalf.  She  effected  her  object  by 
calling  with  the  couple  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 


io8  EDWARD   EVERETT  HALE. 

ing,  yet  felt  sure  she  got  a  masterly  beshrewing 
for  her  pains! 

Mr.  Hale's  plain  dressing  is  said  to  be  some 
thing  of  a  grievance  to  certain  well-meaning  mem 
bers  of  his  congregation,  but  it  is  an  indispens 
able  part  of  his  personality,  and  is,  I  doubt  not, 
adopted  for  moral  example  as  much  as  from  in 
herent  dislike  of  show  and  sham.  I  have  a  pic 
ture  in  my  mind  now  of  Mr.  Hale  as  I  saw  him 
crossing  the  Harvard  College  yard,  one  Com 
mencement  Day,  in  a  by-no-means  glossy  suit  of 
black,  and  wearing  the  inevitable  soft  slouch  hat. 
A  work-worn,  weary,  and  stooping  figure  it  was, 
the  body  slightly  bent,  as  if  from  supporting  such 
a  weight  of  head.  There  are  certain  photographs 
of  Hale  in  which  I  see  the  powerful  profile  of 
Huntington,  the  builder  of  the  Central  Pacific 
Railroad. 

Mr.  Hale  believes  in  the  American  people  most 
heartily,  and  holds  them  to  have  been  always  in 
advance  of  their  political  leaders.  He  is  full  of 
plans  for  social  betterments  and  the  discomfiture 
of  the  devil's  regiments  of  the  line.  In  fact  he 
has  too  much  of  this  kind  of  flax  on  his  distaff  for 
his  own  good.  One  of  his  hobbies  being  cheap 
and  good  literature  for  the  people,  he  is  thor 
oughly  in  sympathy  with  the  Chautauqua  system 
of  popular  instruction.  He  delivered  an  address 
at  the  Framingham  meeting  not  very  long  ago, 


EDWARD   EVERETT  HALE.  109 

and  is  one  of  the  Counselors  of  the  Literary  and 
Scientific  Circle.  His  idea  of  popular  instruction 
is  in  some  respects  fully  realized  in  this  great 
Chautauqua  organization,  with  its  grove  and 
Hall  of  Philosophy,  its  Assembly,  its  annual 
reunions,  and  central  and  local  reading-circles^ 
affording  to  each  of  its  thousands  of  readers  the 
college-student's  general  outlook  upon  the  world. 
Speaking  of  Mr.  Hale's  democratic  sympathies, 
it  is  worthy  of  record  here  that  when  Walt  Whit 
man  published  his  first  quarto,  and  the  press  in 
general  was  howling  with  derision  over  that 
remarkable  trumpet-blast,  Edward  Everett  Hale 
discovered  the  stamp  of  genius  and  manly  power 
in  it,  and  reviewed  it  favorably  in  The  North 
American  Review.  (It  must  be  remembered  that 
the  first  quarto  of  Whitman  did  not  include  the 
poems  on  sex.  These  were  of  later  production.) 
It  is  characteristic  of  him  that  he  has  said  that 
although  he  has  not  seen  that  notice  since  its  ap 
pearance  in  the  Review  in  1856,  he  thinks  he 
would  nevertheless  stand  by  every  word  of  it  to 
day. 

W.  S.  KENNEDY. 

[Within  a  year  or  two  Dr.  Hale  has  resigned  his 
duties  of  pastor  to  Prof.  Edward  Cummings  of 
Harvard  University,  and  is  free  to  enjoy  the  life 
of  busy  leisure  which  he  has  so  richly  earned. — 
EDITORS.] 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE 
REMUS) 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS   (UNCLE 
REMUS) 

AT    ATLANTA 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  is  at  home  in  a  neat 
cottage  of  the  familiar  Southern  type,  which 
nestles  near  the  bosom  of  a  grove  of  sweet  gum 
and  pine  trees  in  the  little  village  of  West  Point, 
about  three  miles  from  the  heart  of  the  "  Southern 
Chicago,"  as  Georgians  delight  to  call  Atlanta.  In 
the  grove  a  mocking-bird  family  sings.  Around 
the  house  are  a  few  acres  of  ground,  which  are 
carefully  cultivated.  In  one  corner  graze  a  group 
of  beautiful  Minerva-eyed  Jerseys.  At  one  side 
of  the  house  hives  of  bees  are  placed  near  a  flower 
garden  sloping  down  to  the  street,  which  passes 
in  front  of  the  house  several  rods  distant.  At  the 
foot  of  the  road  is  a  bubbling  mineral  spring, 
whose  sparkling  water  supplies  the  needs  of  the 
household.  A  superb  English  mastiff  eyes  with 
dignified  glance  the  casual  visitor  whose  coming 
is  apt  to  be  announced  by  the  bark  of  two  of  the 
finest  dogs  in  the  country,  one  a  bulldog,  the 
other  a  white  English  bull-terrier.  Mr.  Harris's 


114  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS). 

neighbors  are  few,  but  one  who  is  his  closest 
friend  calls  for  mention.  It  is  Mr.  Evan  P.  Howell, 
whose  manor  is  across  the  way.  He  is  a  member 
of  a  distinguished  Georgia  family,  whose  name  is 
known  at  the  North  through  Howell  Cobb,  a 
former  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  Mr.  Howell 
himself  has  become  known  to  the  general  public 
as  having  declined  the  Manchester  Consulate  to 
retain  his  present  position  as  chief  editor  and 
owner  of  the  Atlanta  Constitution,  in  whose  pages, 
by  Mr.  Howell's  persuasion,  Uncle  Remus  made 
his  first  appearancee.  The  interior  of  the  cottage 
is  simple  and  unassuming.  Bric-a-brac  and  trum 
pery  "  articles  of  bigotry  and  virtue  "  are  absent. 
The  places  they  generally  occupy  are  taken  up 
with  wide  windows  and  generous  hearths.  Of 
literary  litter  there  is  none.  There  are  few  books, 
but  they  have  been  read  and  re-read,  and  they 
are  the  best  of  books.  The  house  is  not  a  library, 
a  museum,  nor  an  art-gallery,  but  it  is  evidently  a 
home  in  which  children  take  the  place  of  inani 
mate  objects  of  devotion. 

It  is  natural  that  Mr.  Harris's  home  should  be 
simple,  and  call  for  little  elaborate  description. 
He  was  born  and  brought  up  among  simple,  sin 
cere  people,  whose  wants  were  few,  whose  tastes 
were  easily  satisfied,  whose  lives  were  natural  and 
untainted  by  any  such  influences  as  make  for 
cerebral  hyperaemia,  or  other  neurasthenic  com- 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS).    115 

plaints  incidental,  as  Dr.  Hammond  says,  to 
modern  city  life.  The  village  of  Eatonton,  in 
Middle  Georgia,  was  Mr.  Harris's  birth-place. 
Since  Mr.  Henry  Watterson,  in  his  book  on 
Southern  humor,  and  other  writers,  have  made 
Mr.  Harris  an  older  man  than  he  really  is,  it  is 
well  to  state,  as  "  official,"  that  he  was  born  on 
the  gth  of  December,  1848.  Eatonton  is  a  small 
town  now,  but  it  was  smaller  then.  It  was  sur 
rounded  by  plantations,  and  on  one  of  these  Mr. 
Harris  spent  his  earliest  years  as  other  Southern 
children  do.  At  six  he  began  to  read.  Among 
the  first  of  his  literary  acquaintances  was  the  de 
lightful  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  The  boy's  school 
ing  was  such  as  reading  the  best  of  the  authors  of 
the  periods  of  Queen  Anne  and  the  Georges,  and 
a  few  terms  at  the  Eatonton  Academy,  could  give. 
He  read  his  text-books,  but  was  bitterly  opposed 
to  getting  them  by  heart.  When  he  was  about 
twelve  years  old  an  incident  occurred  which  shaped 
his  whole  life.  The  Eatonton  postmaster  kept  a 
sort  of  general  store — the  "  country  store  "  of 
New  England, — and  its  frequenters  were  at  liberty 
to  read  the  copies  of  the  Milledgeville  and  other 
rural  papers  which  were  taken  by  subscribers. 
In  one  of  these,  The  Countryman,  young  Harris 
found  that  it  was  edited  by  a  Mr.  Turner,  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  made  not  very  long  before, 
and  he  thrilled  with  the  thought  that  he  knew  a 


n6  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS}. 

real  editor.  Finding  that  a  boy  was  wanted  he 
wrote  for  the  place,  secured  it,  and  soon  learned 
all  that  was  to  be  gathered  in  so  small  an  office. 
In  addition  to  this  acquirement  of  knowledge,  by 
the  permission  of  Mr.  Turner,  he  had  access  to 
a  library  of  three  thousand  volumes,  which  he 
read  under  the  judicious  guidance  of  their  owner. 
Among  these  books  he  lived  for  several  years  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  agricultural  region,  and  he 
pondered  over  his  reading  to  the  music  of  the 
clicking  types,  with  the  scamper  of  the  cat-squir 
rels  over  the  roof  and  the  patter  of  the  acorns 
dropped  by  the  jay-birds.  For  amusement  he 
hunted  rabbits  with  a  pack  of  half-bred  harriers, 
or  listened  to  the  tales  of  the  plantation  Negro, 
who  was  there  to  be  found  in  primitive  perfection 
of  type.  It  was  on  the  Turner  plantation  that 
the  original  Uncle  Remus  told  his  stories  to  the 
little  boy.  So  it  was  that  he  absorbed  the  won 
derfully  complete  stores  of  knowledge  of  the 
Negro  which  have  since  given  him  fame.  He 
heard  the  Negro's  stories  and  enjoyed  them,  ob 
served  his  characteristics  and  appreciated  them. 
Time  went  on.  The  printer  boy  set  type,  read 
books,  hunted  rabbits,  'possums,  and  foxes,  was 
seized  with  an  ambition  to  write,  and  had  begun 
to  do  so  when  Sherman's  army  went  marching 
through  Georgia.  Slocum's  corps  was  reviewed  by 
Harris  sitting  astride  a  fence.  This  parade  left 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS.)  117 

the  neighborhood  in  chaos,  and  young  Harris  and 
The  Countryman  took  a  long  vacation.  At  last 
peace  and  quiet  and  the  issue  of  The  Countryman 
were  restored.  But  the  paper  had  had  its  day. 

Mr.  Harris  was  now  a  full-fledged  compositor, 
and  he  set  his  "  string  "  of  the  Macon  Daily  Tele 
graph  for  some  months.  Then  he  left  to  go  to 
New  Orleans  as  the  private  secretary  of  the  editor 
of  The  Crescent  Monthly.  This  position  was  not 
arduous,  and  Mr.  Harris  found  time  to  write  bright 
paragraphs  for  the  city  press  at  about  the  same 
time  that  George  W.  Cable  was  trying  his  hand 
at  the  same  kind  of  work.  The  Crescent  Monthly 
soon  waned,  and  with  its  end  Mr.  Harris  found 
himself  back  in  Georgia  as  editor  of  the  Forsyth 
Advertiser,  which  was  and  is  one  of  the  most  in 
fluential  weekly  papers  in  Georgia.  He  was  not 
only  editor,  but  he  set  most  of  the  type,  worked 
off  the  edition  on  a  hand-press,  and  wrapped  and 
directed  his  papers  for  the  mail.  His  editorials 
here,  directed  against  certain  abuses  in  the  State, 
were  widely  copied  for  their  pungent  criticism 
and  bubbling  humor.  They  attracted  the  atten 
tion  of  Colonel  W.  T.  Thompson,  author  of 
"  Major  Jones's  Courtship,"  who  was  then  editor  of 
the  Savannah  Daily  News,  and  he  offered  Mr. 
Harris  a  place  on  his  staff.  It  was  accepted. 
This  was  in  1871.  In  1873  Mr.  Harris  was  mar 
ried.  He  remained  in  Savannah  until  September, 


Ii8  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS}. 

1876,  when  the  yellow-fever  epidemic  caused  him 
to  go  up  in  the  mountains  to  Atlanta,  where  he 
became  an  editor  of  the  Constitution.  At  that 
time  the  paper  was  beginning  to  make  a  more 
than  local  reputation  by  the  humorous  Negro 
dialect  sketches  by  Mr.  S.  W.  Small,  under  the 
name  of  "  Old  Si."  Shortly  after  Mr.  Harris's 
arrival  Mr.  Small  left  the  Constitution  to  engage 
in  another  enterprise,  and  the  proprietors,  in  their 
anxiety  to  replace  one  of  the  most  attractive 
features  of  their  paper,  turned  to  Mr.  Harris  for 
aid.  He  was  required  to  furnish  two  or  three 
sketches  a  week.  He  took  an  old  Negro  with 
whom  he  had  been  familiar  on  the  Turner  place, 
and  made  him  chief  spokesman  in  several  character 
sketches.  Their  basis  was  the  projection  of  the 
old-time  Negro  against  the  new  condition  of  things 
brought  about  by  the  War. 

These  succeeded  well  ;  but  tiring  of  them 
after  awhile,  he  wrote  one  night  the  first  sketch 
as  it  appears  in  the  published  volume,  "  Uncle 
Remus."  To  the  North  this  was  a  revelation  of 
an  unknown  life.  The  slight  but  strong  frame  in 
which  the  old  Negro's  portrait  was  set,  the  playful 
propinquity  of  smiles  and  tears,  and  the  fresh 
humor  and  absolute  novelty  of  the  folk-lore  tale 
existing  as  a  hidden  treasure  in  the  South,  were 
revealed  for  the  first  time  to  critical  admiration. 
The  sketches  were  widely  copied  in  leading 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS).    119 

journals,  like  the  staid  Evening  Post  of  New 
York.  Both  the  Constitution  and  Mr.  Harris 
soon  found  that  they  had  a  national  reputation. 
When  the  volume  containing  the  collected 
sketches  was  published,  it  was  an  immediate 
success.  It  was  soon  reprinted  in  England  ;  and 
still  sells  steadily  in  large  numbers,  giving  ex 
quisite  pleasure  to  thousands  of  children  and 
their  elders.  A  second  collection  of  tales,  most 
of  which  were  published  in  The  Century,  but 
some  of  which  made  their  first  appearance  in 
The  Critic,  was  republished  in  1883,  anc^  m 
that  year  Mr.  Harris  was  introduced  anew  to  the 
general  public  as  the  writer  of  a  sketch  in  Har 
per's  Christmas,  which  showed  for  the  first  time 
that  the  firm  and  artistic  hand  which  drew  the 
Negro  to  perfection  had  mastered  equally  well 
the  most  difficult  art  of  elaborate  character-draw 
ing  and  of  dramatic  development.  "  Mingo,"  the 
first  successful  short  story  of  Mr.  Harris,  was  fol 
lowed  by  "  At  Teague  Poteet's  "  in  The  Century. 
I  have  dwelt  somewhat  at  length  on  the  inci 
dents  of  Mr.  Harris's  career  for  three  reasons : 
first,  because  the  facts  have  never  before  been 
printed ;  second,  because  they  illustrate  in  a 
remarkable  way  the  influence  of  environment  on 
a  literary  intellect,  whose  steady,  healthy,  pro 
gressive  growth  and  development  can  be  clearly 
traced  ;  and  third,  because  it  is  evident  that  Mr. 


120  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS). 

Harris  is  a  young  man  who  has  passed  over  the 
plains  of  apprenticeship  and  is  mounting  the  hill  of 
purely  literary  fame,  whose  acclivity  he  has  over 
come  by  making  a  further  exertion  of  the  strength 
and  power  which  he  has  indicated  though  not 
fully  displayed.  At  present  he  lives  two  lives. 
One  is  that  of  his  profession.  His  duties  are 
arduous,  and  consume  much  of  his  time.  Much 
of  the  best  work  in  the  Constitution,  which  has 
given  that  paper  fame  as  a  representative  of 
"  the  new  South,"  is  due  to  Mr.  Harris.  In  the 
history  of  Southern  journalism  he  will  occupy  a 
high  place  for  having  introduced  in  that  part  of 
the  United  States  personal  amenities  and  freedom 
from  sectional  tone.  He  has  discussed  national 
topics  broadly  and  sincerely,  in  a  style  which  is 
effective  in  "  molding  public  opinion,"  but  which 
is  not  literature.  His  second  life  begins  where 
the  other  ends.  It  is  literally  divided  as  day  is 
from  night,  for  his  editorial  work  is  done  at  the 
Constitution  office  in  the  day-time,  and  his  liter 
ary  work  is  done  at  home  at  night.  On  the  one 
side  he  works  for  bread  and  butter,  on  the  other 
he  works  for  art,  and  from  the  motive  that  always 
exists  in  the  best  literary  art.  At  home  he  is 
hardest  at  work  when  apparently  most  indolent, 
and  he  allows  his  characters  to  gallop  around  in 
his  brain  and  develop  long  before  he  touches 
pen  to  paper.  When  he  reaches  this  stage  his 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS).    121 

work  is  slow  and  careful,  and  in  marked  contrast 
to  his  editorial  work,  which  is  dashed  off  at  white 
heat,  as  such  work  must  be. 

Perhaps  the  best  illustration  I  can  give  of 
his  methods  is  to  describe  the  genesis  of  "At 
Teague  Poteet's,"  which  may  also  be  interesting 
as  giving  an  insight  into  the  work  of  creative 
authorship.  The  trial  of  two  United  States 
Deputy-Marshals  for  the  killing  of  an  under- 
witted,  weak,  unarmed,  and  inoffensive  old  man, 
who  was  guilty  only  of  the  crime  of  having  a 
private  still  for  "  moonshine  " — not  a  member  of 
the  mountain  band, — was  progressing  in  Atlanta 
when  the  subject  of  simple  proper  names  as 
titles  of  stories  came  up  in  the  Constitution 
office.  One  of  the  staff  cited  Scott's  "  Ivanhoe," 
Thackeray's  "  Pendennis,"  and  Dickens's  "  David 
Copperfield  "  as  instances  of  books  which  were 
likely  to  attract  readers  by  their  titles,  and  tak 
ing  up  a  Georgia  state-directory,  the  speaker's 
eye  fell  on  the  name  Teague  Poteet.  He  sug 
gested  to  Mr.  Harris  that  if  he  merely  took  that 
name  and  wove  around  it  the  story  of  the  moon 
shiner's  trial,  it  would  attract  as  many  readers  as 
Uncle  Remus ;  and  it  was  further  suggested  that 
Mr.  Harris  should  make  a  column  sketch  of  the 
subject  for  the  next  Sunday's  Constitution. 
From  this  simple  beginning  Teague  Poteet  grew 
after  several  months'  incubation,  and  when  it 


122  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS). 

was  published  in  The  Century  it  will  be  remem 
bered  how  the  public  hailed  it  as  disclosing  a 
new  phase  of  American  life,  similar  to  those 
revealed  by  Cable,  Craddock  and  the  rest  of  the 
new  generation.  No  one  unfamiliar  with  the 
people  can  fully  appreciate  how  truthful  and 
exact  is  the  description  of  characteristics  ;  or  how 
accurately  the  half-humorous,  half-melancholy 
features  of  the  stern  drama  of  life  in  the  locality 
are  wrought  out,  yielding  promise  of  greater 
things  to  come. 

In  person  Mr.  Harris  has  few  peculiarities.  In 
stature  he  is  of  the  average  height  of  the  people 
of  his  section,  rather  under  the  average  height  of 
the  people  of  the  Eastern  and  Middle  States. 
The  Northern  papers  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Cable 
as  a  little  man.  He  and  Mr.  Harris  are  about  of 
a  size,  which  is  not  much  excelled  in  their  sec 
tion  except  by  the  lank  giants  of  the  mountains. 
His  features  are  small.  His  face  is  tanned  and 
freckled.  His  mouth  is  covered  by  a  stubbly 
red  mustache,  and  his  eyes  are  small  and  blue. 
Both  his  eyes  and  mouth  are  extremely  mobile, 
sensitive  and  expressive.  There  is  probably  no 
living  man  more  truly  diffident ;  but  his  diffidence 
is  the  result  of  excessive  sympathy  and  tender 
ness,  which  cause  the  bright  blue  eyes  to  well  up 
at  any  bit  of  pathos  just  as  they  fairly  sparkle 
with  humor.  His  amusements  and  tastes  are 


JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS  (UNCLE  REMUS).    123 

few  and  simple.  His  constant  companions  are 
Shakspeare,  Job,  St.  Paul,  and  Ecclesiastes.  He 
is  devoted  to  his  family,  which  consists  of  his 
mother,  his  wife,  four  exceedingly  bright  boys 
and  a  girl,  and  the  flock  of  mocking-birds  that 
winters  in  his  garden.  He  never  goes  into  society 
or  to  the  theatre.  He  once  acted  as  dramatic 
critic  of  the  Constitution,  but  his  misery  at  being 
obliged  to  see  and  criticise  dull  actors  was  so 
acute  that  he  soon  resigned  the  position.  The 
small-talk  of  society  has  no  attractions  for  him. 
His  home  is  enough.  When  his  children  are 
tired  and  sleepy  and  are  put  to  bed,  he  writes  at 
the  fireside  where  they  have  been  sitting.  It  is 
warm  in  winter,  and  cool  in  summer,  and  never 
lonely ;  and  so  strong  is  his  domestic  instinct 
that  although  he  had  a  room  built  specially  as  a 
study,  he  soon  deserted  its  lonely  cheerlessness 
for  the  comforts  of  his  home,  where  his  tender 
and  kindly  nature  makes  him  loved  by  every  one. 

ERASTUS  BRAINERD. 


PROF.  J.  A.  HARRISON 


PROF.  J.  A.   HARRISON 

AT    LEXINGTON,    VA. 

Professor  Harrison's  home  is  in  Lexington,  a 
quaint  old  town  in  the  "  Valley  of  Virginia."  Sit 
uated  on  North  River,  an  affluent  of  the  James, 
Lexington  is  surrounded  by  mountains  covered 
with  a  native  growth  of  beautiful  foliage.  In  the 
distance  tower  aloft  the  picturesque  Peaks  of 
Otter ;  nearer  by  is  seen  the  unique  Natural 
Bridge.  For  nearly  a  century  it  has  been  a  uni 
versity  town.  Two  institutions  of  learning  have 
generated  about  the  place  an  intellectual  atmos 
phere.  More  than  one  literary  character  has 
made  it  a  home.  It  is,  indeed,  an  ideal  spot  for 
the  studious  scholar  and  the  diligent  litterateur. 

James  Albert  Harrison  was  born  at  Pass  Chris 
tian,  Mississippi,  the  latter  part  of  1848.  His  first 
lessons  were  given  by  private  tutors.  Later,  his 
family  moved  to  New  Orleans  and  he  entered  the 
public  schools  of  that  city.  From  the  public 
schools  he  went  to  the  High  School,  at  the  head 
of  his  class.  But  shortly  afterwards,  in  1862, 
New  Orleans  fell  and  his  family  went  into  exile. 
They  wandered  about  the  Confederacy  some  time, 

127 


128  PROF.  J.   A.   HARRISON. 

from  pillar  to  post,  till  finally  they  stuck  in 
Georgia  till  the  close  of  the  War.  This  fortunate 
event  kept  him  from  becoming  a  midshipman  on 
the  Patrick  Henry.  Finally  the  family  returned 
to  New  Orleans.  Deprived  of  regular  instruction 
he  had  been  giving  himself  up  to  voracious,  but 
very  miscellaneous,  reading  ;  but  now,  under  a 
learned  German  Jew,  he  began  to  prepare  him 
self  for  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  he  re 
mained  two  years — until,  he  says,  "  I  had  to  go 
to  work."  After  teaching  a  year  near  Baltimore 
he  went  to  Europe,  and  studied  two  years  at 
Bonn  and  Munich.  On  his  return,  in  1871,  he  was 
elected  to  the  chair  of  Latin  and  Modern  Lan 
guages  in  Randolph  Macon  College,  Virginia.  In 
1875  he  was  called  to  the  chair  of  English  and 
Modern  Languages  in  Vanderbilt  University ;  but 
he  remained  where  he  was  till  the  next  year. 
Then  he  accepted  the  corresponding  chair  in 
Washington  and  Lee  University,  which  he  has 
held  ever  since.  There,  in  September,  1885,  the 
happiest  event  of  his  life  took  place.  He  was  mar 
ried  to  a  daughter  of  Virginia's  famous  "War 
Governor,"  Governor  Letcher. 

Prof.  Harrison  comes  of  a  literary  family.  His 
father,  who  was  a  leading  citizen  of  New  Orleans, 
and  quite  wealthy  till  some  time  after  the  War, 
belonged  to  the  Harrison  family  of  Virginia.  His 
mother  was  a  descendant  of  the  Mayor  of  Bristol 


PROF.  J.    A.    HARRISON.  129 

in  Charles  II. 's  time,  as  is  shown  by  a  family  diary 
begun  in  1603  and  continued  to  the  present  day. 
On  this  side,  too,  he  is  related  to  John  Hookham 
Frere,  the  translator  of  Aristophanes.     Others  of 
his  literary  kinsfolk  are  Miss  F.  C.  Baylor,  author 
of    "On  Both   Sides"    and    "Behind   the    Blue 
Ridge,"  and  Mrs.   Tiernan,   author  of  "  Homo- 
selle,"  "  Suzette,"  etc.    In  Prof.  Harrison's  library 
there  are  about  3000  volumes,  in  15  or  20  different 
languages,  while  here  and  there  through  the  house 
are  scattered  bric-a-brac,  pictures,  and  a  heteroge 
neous  collections  of  odds  and  ends  picked  up  in 
travel — feather-pictures  and  banded  agates  from 
Mexico,  embroideries  and   pipes  from  Constanti 
nople,  souvenirs  from  Alaska,  British  America, 
Norway,    Germany,   France,    Spain,     Italy    and 
Greece.    His  naturally  good  taste  in  art  and  music 
has  been  well  cultivated.     His   conversation  is 
delightful — now  racy  with  anecdote,  now  bristling 
with  repartee,   again  charming  with  instruction. 
More  than  any  other  man,  I  think,  he  is  a  har 
binger  of  better  things  at  the  South.     He  is  a 
real  son  of  the  new  South.     In  him   the  old  and 
the  new  are  harmoniously  blended.  To  the  polish, 
the  suavity,  the  refinement  of  the  old  South  are 
added  the  earnestness,  the  enthusiasm,  the  wider 
and  more  useful  culture  of  the  new.     Up  to  this 
time  his  life  has  been  spent  in  study,  in  travel,  in 
teaching,  and  in  writing. 


130  PROF.  J.   A.   HARRISON. 

In  teaching  and  in  scholarly  work  Professor  Har 
rison  has  been  unusually  active.  Since  1871  he 
has  taught  nine  months  of  every  year ;  and  almost 
every  year  has  seen  from  his  pen  some  piece  of 
scholarly  work  in  the  domain  of  English,  French 
or  German  literature  and  philology.  Heine's 
"  Reisebilder,"  "French  Syntax,"  " Negro  Eng 
lish,"  "  Creole  Patois,"  "  Teutonic  Life  in  Beo 
wulf,"  ten  lectures  on  "  Anglo-Saxon  Poetry " 
before  Johns  Hopkins  University — these,  with 
several  other  publications,  bear  witness  to  his 
industry  and  his  scholarship.  But  his  chief  claim 
to  regard  in  this  department  of  literature  is  in 
originating  the  "  Library  of  Anglo-Saxon  Poetry," 
and  in  his  work  on  the  "  Handy  Anglo-Saxon 
Dictionary."  The  first  volume  of  the  Library, 
that  on  Beowulf,  at  once  took  the  first  place  with 
English  and  American  scholars,  and  was  adopted 
as  a  text-book  in  Oxford  and  other  universities. 
In  the  lecture-room  Professor  Harrison  is  pleasant, 
genial,  helpful  and  alert.  His  students  like  him 
as  a  man,  and  take  pride  in  showing  his  name  on 
their  diplomas.  He  had  not  been  teaching  two 
years  before  he  convinced  every  one  that  only 
thorough  scholarship  could  win  that  signature. 

At  a  very  early  age  Professor  Harrison  began 
to  write  doggerel  for  the  New  Orleans  Picayune 
and  Times.  While  a  student  at  the  University 
of  Virginia  he  wrote  an  article  for  the  Baltimore 


PROF.  J.  A.   HARRISON.  131 

Episcopal  Methodist  called  "  Notre  Dame  de  Paris," 
which  attracted  much  attention.  His  next  piece 
of  literary  work  was  a  paper  on  Bjornstjerne 
Bjornson,  which  won  the  $50  gold  medal  given 
by  The  University  Magazine.  As  he  was  not  a 
matriculate  at  the  time,  the  prize  could  not  be 
awarded.  In  1871  his  "  first  literary  effort,"  as 
he  calls  it,  appeared  in  Lippincotfs  Magazine.  It 
was  entitled  "  Goethe  and  the  Scenery  about 
Baden-Baden."  Then  essay  after  essay  followed 
in  quick  succession  from  his  pen.  Soon  after  this 
his  connection  with  The  Southern  Magazine  began, 
which  resulted  in  a  series  of  essays  on  French, 
German,  English,  Swedish,  and  Italian  poets. 
These  were  published  by  Kurd  &  Houghton,  in 
1875,  under  the  title  of  "A  Group  of  Poets  and 
their  Haunts,"  and  the  edition  was  immediately 
sold.  In  literary  circles,  especially  in  Boston, 
this  book  won  for  the  young  author  firm  stand 
ing-ground.  His  first  work  is  chiefly  remarkable 
for  the  overflow  of  a  copious  vocabulary  and  the 
almost  riotous  display  of  a  rich  fancy  and  abun 
dant  learning.  We  are  swept  along  with  the 
stream  in  which  trees  torn  up  by  the  roots  from 
Greek  and  Latin  banks  come  whirling,  dashing, 
plunging  by  in  countless  numbers  ;  the  waters 
spread  out  on  all  sides,  but  we  are  not  always 
quite  sure  of  the  channel.  Since  then  the  waters 
have  subsided,  and  we  see  a  broad  channel  and  a 


132  PROF.  J.   A.   HARRISON. 

current  swift  and  clear.  In  1876  Professor  Harri 
son  made  a  visit  to  Greece,  and  on  his  return  pub 
lished  through  Houghton,  Osgood  &  Co.  a  volume 
of  "  Greek  Vignettes."  The  London  Academy 
expressed  the  general  opinion  of  this  book  in  the 
following  sentence  :  "  It  is  so  charmingly  written 
that  one  can  hardly  lay  it  down  to  criticise  it." 
In  1878  a  visit  to  Spain  resulted  in  another  book, 
"Spain  in  Profile,"  which  was  followed  in  1881  by 
the  "  History  of  Spain."  In  1885  the  Putnams 
began  to  publish  the  Story  of  the  Nations,  and 
Professor  Harrison's  "  Story  of  Greece "  was 
given  the  place  of  honor  as  the  initial  volume  of 
the  series.  His  chief  characteristics,  as  shown  in 
these  works,  are  critical  insight  and  descriptive 
power.  His  versatile  fancy,  too,  is  ever  giving 
delightful  surprises,  as  in  this  little  note  anent 
Dr.  Holmes's  seventy-fifth  birthday:  "  He  is  the 
Light  of  New  England,  as  Longfellow  was  the 
Love,  and  Emerson  the  Intellect.  I  saw  a  won 
derful  cactus  in  Mexico,  all  prickles  and  blos 
soms — Dr.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  all  over;  but 
the  blossoms  hid  the  prickles."  Some  of  his  most 
elaborate  descriptions  are  found  in  "  Spain  in 
Profile,"  such  as  the  "  Alhambra,"  "  A  Spanish 
Bull-fight  ";  others  again  in  The  Critic  ("  Venice 
from  a  Gondola,"  "  A  Summer  in  Alaska,"  etc.)  to 
which  he  has  long  been  a  constant  contributor. 
His  critical  insight  is  shown  in  such  reviews  as 


PROF.  J.    A.    HARRISON.  133 

those  of  Ruskin,  Poe,  Balzac,  and  Froude's 
"  Oceana,"  and  in  such  brief  essays  as  "  An  Italian 
Critic,"  "  Two  Views  of  Shelley,"  "  George  Sand 
and  Diderot,"  etc.  His  contributions  to  other 
periodicals  have  been  numerous.  His  articles  in 
The  Nation,  Literary  World,  Current,  Independent, 
Home  Journal,  Lippincoti*  s,  Manhattan,  Overland 
Monthly,  American  Journal  of  Philology,  Anglia, 
etc.,  would  fill  several  volumes.  Two  charming 
stories — "  P'tit-Jose"-Ba'tiste,"  a  Creole  story,  and 
"  Dieudonne"e,"  a  West  Indian  Creole  story — tes 
tify  to  his  skill  in  this  kind  of  writing.  Since 
1895  he  has  been  professor  of  English  and  Ro 
mance  languages  in  the  University  of  Virginia. 
Several  trips  to  different  parts  of  Europe,  visits  to 
Alaska,  British  America,  Mexico,  and  the  West 
Indies,  during  which  he  studied  the  languages  as 
well  as  the  customs  of  the  peoples,  have  given  him 
many  a  "  peep  over  the  edge  of  things." 

W.  M.  BASKERVILL. 


COL.  JOHN  HAY 


'35 


YAH  MHO| 


COL.  JOHN  HAY 

IN    WASHINGTON 

It  was  a  happy  thought  that  inspired  The 
Critic  s  series  of  Authors  at  Home.  The  very 
idea  was  benevolence.  One  of  its  charms  is  the 
reader's  sense  of  mutuality — reciprocity.  Has 
not  Col.  Hay,  for  instance,  been  a  welcomed  guest 
beneath  many,  many  roof-trees,  beside  many, 
many  hearthstones  ;  and  are  his  own  doors  to  be 
shut  with  a  "  Procul,  O  procul  este,  profani !  "  ? 
One  can  fancy  the  gratitude  of  posterity  for  these 
contemporary  sketches  of  those  whose  lips  have 
been  touched  and  tongues  loosened  by  the  song- 
inspirer — of  those  who  have  "  instructed  our  ig 
norance,  elevated  our  platitudes,  brightened  our 
dullness,  and  delighted  our  leisure."  For  the 
lack  of  a  Critic  in  the  past,  how  little  we  know 
of  those  authors  at  home  whom  we  forgather  with 
in  imagination  !  A  scrap  of  this  memoir,  that 
biography,  and  yonder  letter,  makes  a  ragged 
picture  at  best.  There  was  only  one  Boswell, 
and  he,  as  Southey  says,  has  gone  to  heaven  for 
his  "  Johnson,"  if  ever  a  man  went  there  for  his 


138  COL.  JOHN  HAY. 

good  works.  The  mind's  eye,  of  course,  pictures 
Rogers  at  one  of  his  famous  breakfasts  ;  the  gal 
axy  at  Holland  House  ;  Coleridge  monotoning, 
with  Lamb  furnishing  puns  for  periods ;  "  smug 
Sydney,"  ten  miles  from  a  lemon,  scattering 
pearls  before  Yorkshire  swine  ;  Dr.  Johnson  at 
Thrale's,  drinking  tea  and  bullying  his  betters  ; 
Dryden  enthroned  at  the  Kit-kat ;  but  all  the  por 
traits,  save  those  by  Boswell,  are  unsatisfactory — 
mere  outlines  without  coloring,  and  lacking  that 
essential  background,  the  "at  home." 

Great  political  revolutions  are  the  results  or 
causes  of  literary  schools  ;  and  the  future  student 
of  our  literature  will  note  with  more  emphasis 
than  we,  that  one  of  the  incidents  or  results  of 
the  war  between  the  sections  was  the  birth  of  a 
new  school  of  writers  whose  works  are  distinc 
tively  original  and  distinctively  American.  To 
this  class,  who  have  won,  and  are  winning,  fame 
for  themselves  while  conferring  it  upon  their 
country,  belongs  Col.  Hay.  His  earlier  writings 
have  the  characteristics  of  freshness,  vigor  and  in 
tensity  which  indicate  an  absence  of  the  literary 
vassalage  that  dwarfed  the  growth  and  conven 
tionalized  or  anglicized  American  writers  as  a 
class.  Travel  and  indwelling  among  the  shrines 
of  the  Old  World's  literary  gods  and  goddesses, 
have  not  un-Americanized  either  the  man  or  the 
author.  The  facile  transition  from  "  Jim  Bludso  " 


COL.  JOHN  HAY.  139 

to  "  A  Woman's  Love  "  is  paralleled  by  that  from 
a  bull-fight  to  a  Bourbon  duel. 

Though  not  at  all  ubiquitous,  Col.  Hay  is  a 
man  of  many  homes, — that  of  his  birth,  Indiana  ; 
that  of  his  Alma  Mater,  "  Brown,"  whose  memory 
he  has  gracefully  and  affectionately  embalmed  in 
verse ;  that  of  his  Mother-in-Law,  Illinois,  having 
been  admitted  to  her  bar  in  1861.  This  great 
year — 1861 — the  pivot  upon  which  turned  so 
many  destinies, — saw  him  "  at  home  "  in  the 
White  House.  Next  to  his  own  individual 
claims  upon  national  recognition,  his  relations  to 
the  martyred  President,  the  well-known  confi 
dence,  esteem  and  affection  which  that  great 
guider  of  national  destiny  felt  for  his  youthful 
secretary,  have  rendered  his  name  as  familiar  as 
a  household  word.  At  home  in  the  tented  fields 
of  the  Civil  War,  at  home  in  the  diplomatic 
circles  of  Paris,  Vienna,  and  Madrid,  Col.  Hay, 
after  an  exceptionally  varied  experience,  planted 
his  first  vine  and  fig-tree  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and 
his  second  in  the  City  of  Washington.  Between 
these  two  homes  he  vibrates.  The  summer  finds 
him  in  his  Euclid  Avenue  house,  which  occupies 
the  site  where  that  of  Susan  Coolidge  once  stood. 
Around  its  far-reaching  courtyard  and  uncramped, 
unfenced  spaciousness,  she  moved — that  happiest 
of  beings,  one  endeared  to  little  stranger  hearts 
all  over  the  land. 


140  COL.  JOHN  HA  Y. 

Among  the  many  handsome  residences  erected 
within  a  few  years  in  Washington,  Col.  Hay's  is 
one  of  the  largest.  Its  solid  mass  of  red  brick,  mas 
sive  stone  trimmings,  stairway  and  arched  entrance, 
Romanesque  in  style,  give  it  an  un-American  ap 
pearance  of  being  built  to  stay.  The  architect, 
the  late  H.  H.  Richardson,  seems  to  have  dedi 
cated  the  last  efforts  of  dying  genius  to  the  object 
of  making  the  structure  bold  without  and  beauti 
ful  within.  The  great,  broad  hall,  the  graceful 
and  roomy  stairway,  the  large  dining-room  on  the 
right,  wainscoted  in  dark  mahogany,  with 
its  great  chimney-place  and  great  stone  mantel 
piece  extending  beyond  on  either  side;  the  other 
chimney-places  with  African  marble  mantel 
pieces  ;  the  oak  wainscoting  of  the  large  library, 
and  the  colored  settles  on  either  side  of  the  fire 
place  ;  the  cosey  little  room  at  the  entrance  ; 
the  charming  drawing-room — in  brief,  it  seems 
as  though  Mr.  Richardson  contemplated  a  monu 
ment  to  himself  when  he  designed  this  beautiful 
home.  The  library  is  the  largest  room  ;  and  it 
was  there  that  I  found  Col.  Hay  at  home  in  every 
sense.  The  walls  are  shelved,  hung  (not  crowded) 
with  pictures ;  the  works  of  virtu  break  the 
otherwise  staring  ranks  of  books. 

The  author's  house  is  situated  at  the  corner  of 
H  and  Sixteenth  Streets.  Its  southern  windows 
look  out  upon  Lafayette  Park,  and  beyond  it  at 


COL.  JOHN  HA  Y.  141 

the  confronting  White  House,  peculiarly  sug 
gestive  to  Col.  Hay  of  historic  days  and  men  ; 
and  as  he  labors  on  his  History  of  Lincoln,  I 
imagine,  the  view  of  the  once  home  of  the  mar 
tyr  is  a  source  at  once  of  sadness  and  of  inspi 
ration.  In  the  same  street,  one  block  to  the 
west,  lived  George  Bancroft ;  diagonally  across 
the  park,  and  in  full  view,  is  the  house  where  was 
attempted  the  assassination  of  Secretary  Sew- 
ard,  and  near  where  Philip  Barton  Key  was  killed 
by  Gen.  Sickles  ;  opposite  the  east  front  of  Col. 
Hay's  house  is  St.  John's,  one  of  the  oldest 
Episcopal  churches  in  the  District  of  Columbia, 
much  frequented  by  the  older  Presidents.  It  was 
here  that  Dolly  Madison  exhibited  her  frills  and 
fervor.  Before  the  days  of  American  admirals, 
tradition  says  that  one  of  the  old  commodores, 
returning  from  a  long  and  far  cruise  in  which  he 
had  distinguished  himself,  and  starting  for  St. 
John's  on  a  Sunday  morning,  entered  the  church 
as  the  congregation  was  about  repeating  the 
Creed.  As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  aisle,  the  peo 
ple  stood  up,  as  is  the  custom.  The  old  commo 
dore,  being  conscious  of  meritorious  service,  mis 
took  the  movement  for  an  expression  of  personal 
respect,  and  with  patronizing  politeness,  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  Rev.  Dr.  Pyne  and  the  con 
gregation,  and  said  :  "  Don't  rise  on  my  account !  " 
The  whitened  sepulchre  of  a  house  to  the  west  of 


I42  COL.  JOHN  HAY. 

Col.  Hay's,  was  the  residence  of  Senator  Slidell — 
the  once  international  What-shall-we-do-with-him  ? 
The  eastern  corner  of  the  opposite  block  was  the 
home  and  death-place  of  Sumner.  In  the  imme 
diate  neighborhood  are  the  three  clubs  of  Wash 
ington — the  Metropolitan,  Cosmos,  and  Jefferson. 
The  first  has  the  character  of  being  exclusive,  the 
second  of  being  .scientific,  and  the  third  liberal. 
In  the  one  they  eat  terrapin  ;  in  the  other,  talk 
anthropology  ;  while  in  the  last,  Congressmen, 
Cabinet  officers  and  journalists  are  "  at  home," 
and  a  spirit  of  cosmopolitanism  prevails. 

The  author  of  "  Pike  County  Ballads "  and 
"  Castilian  Days,"  and  the  biographer  of  Lincoln, 
is  about  sixty-four  years  of  age.  In  person,  of 
average  height;  gray  hair,  mustache  and  beard, 
and  brown  eyes  ;  well  built,  well  dressed,  well 
bred  and  well  read,  he  is  pleasant  to  look  at  and 
to  talk  with.  He  is  a  good  talker  and  polite 
listener,  and  altogether  an  agreeable  and  in 
structive  companion.  As  a  collector  he  seems  to 
be  jealous  as  to  quality  rather  than  greedy  as  to 
quantity.  His  shelves  are  not  loaded  down  with 
so  many  pounds  of  print  bound  in  what-not,  and 
his  pictures  and  works  of  art  "  have  pedigrees." 
I  found  great  pleasure  in  examining  a  fine  old 
edition  of  Lucan's  "  Pharsalia,"  printed  at  Straw 
berry  Hill,  with  notes  by  Grotius  and  Bentley. 
A  much  more  interesting  work  was  "  The  Hier- 


COL.  JOHN  HAY.  143 

archie  of  the  Blessed  Angells,  Printed  by  Adam 
Islip,  1635."  On  the  fly-leaf  was  written:  "  E. 
B.  Jones,  from  his  friend  A.  C.  Swinburne."  My 
attention  was  called  to  the  following  lines : 

Mellifluous  Shake-speare,  whose  enchanting  quill, 
Commanded  mirth  and  passion,  was  but  Will. 

They  suggested  the  Donnelly  extravaganza  ;  and 
I  discovered  Col.  Hay  to  be  of  the  opinion  which 
well-informed  students  of  English  literature  gen 
erally  hold — namely,  that  Mr.  Donnelly's  inge 
nuity  is  equalled  only  by  his  ignorance.  There 
was  also  a  presentation  copy  of  the  first  edition 
of  Beckford's  "  Vathek,"  and  De  Thou's  copy  of 
Calvin's  Letters,  with  De  Thou's  and  his  wife's 
ciphers  intertwined  in  gilt  upon  its  side  and  back, 
expressive  of  a  partnership  even  in  their  books ; 
and  rare  and  costly  editions  of  Rogers's  "  Italy" 
and  "  Poems."  It  will  be  recollected  that  the 
banker-poet  engaged  Turner  to  illustrate  his 
verses,  and  the  total  cost  to  the  author  was 
about  $60,000.  Among  objects  of  special  in 
terest  are  the  bronze  masks  of  Mr.  Lincoln,  one 
by  Volk  (1860),  the  other  by  Clark  Mills  (1865). 
It  is  a  test  of  credulity  to  accept  them  as  the 
counterfeit  presentments  of  the  President.  There 
is  such  a  difference  in  the  contour,  lines  and  ex 
pression,  that,  as  Col.  Hay  remarked,  the  con 
trast  exhibits  the  influences  and  effects  of  the 


144  COL.  JOHN  HAY. 

great  cares  and  responsibilities  under  which  Mr. 
Lincoln  labored ;  and  although  both  casts  were 
made  in  life,  and  at  an  interval  of  only  five  years, 
the  latter  one  represents  a  face  fifteen  years 
older  than  the  first. 

Over  the  library  door  are  two  large  bronze  por 
traits,  hanging  on  the  same  line ;  one  is  of  How- 
ells,  the  other  of  James.  Residence  abroad,  and 
that  attention  to  and  study  of  art  to  which  "  An 
Hour  with  the  Painters  "  bears  evidence,  enabled 
Col.  Hay  to  make  a  selection  of  oils  and  water- 
colors,  pen-and-inks  and  drawings  which  is  not 
marred  by  anything  worthless.  Before  referring 
to  these,  I  must  not  pass  a  portrait  of  Henry 
James,  when  twenty-one  years  of  age,  painted  by 
Lafarge.  A  Madonna  and  Child,  by  Sassoferrato  ; 
St.  Paul's,  London,  by  Canaletto ;  a  woman's 
portrait  by  Maes  ;  four  pen-and-ink  sketches  by 
Du  Maurier,  and  one  by  Zamacois ;  two  by 
Turner — of  Lucerne  and  the  Drachenfels  (see 
"  Childe  Harold,"  or  the  guide-book,  for  Byron's 
one-line  picture  of  the  castellated  cliff) ;  a  water- 
color  by  Girtin,  Turner's  over-praised  teacher ; 
and  a  collection  of  original  drawings  by  the  old 
masters — Raphael,  Correggio,  Teniers,  Guido, 
Rubens  and  others, — surely  there  is  nothing 
superfluous  in  his  collection ;  and  the  same 
elegant  and  discriminating  taste  is  exhibited  in 
all  of  Col.  Hay's  surroundings.  The  poet  has 


COL.  JOHN  HAY.  145 

laid  aside  his  lyre  temporarily,  and  with  Mr.  Nico- 
lay,  late  Marshal  of  the  Supreme  Court,  devoted 
himself  to  preparing  for  The  Century  what,  at  the 
time  it  was  written,  was  the  most  exhaustive  me 
moir  of  a  man  and  his  times  ever  written  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  Conscious  of  the  depth, 
height,  and  breadth  of  their  theme,  the  writers  did 
not  propose  to  leave  anything  for  successors  to 
supply  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  administra 
tion. 

Reflecting  that  though  scientific  workers  were 
plentiful  in  Washington  there  was  but  a  sprink 
ling  of  literary  men,  I  asked  Col.  Hay  what  he 
thought  of  the  capital's  possibilities  as  a  "  literary 
centre."  His  opinion  was  that  the  great  presses 
and  publishing-houses  were  the  nucleus  of  literary 
workers;  but  that  the  advantages  afforded,  or  to 
be  afforded,  by  the  National  Library  and  other  Gov 
ernment  facilities,  must  of  necessity  invite  authors 
to  Washington,  from  time  to  time,  on  special  er 
rands,  or  for  temporary  residence. 

B.  G.  LOVEJOY. 

[Since  his  residence  in  London  as  Ambassador 
to  the  Court  of  St.  James  and  his  resignation  from 
the  position  of  Secretary  of  State,  Col.  Hay  has 
divided  his  time  between  Washington  and  his  sum 
mer  home  at  Lake  Sunapee,  in  New  Hampshire. 
— EDITORS.] 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 


147 


THOMAS    WENTWORTH    HIGGINSON 

AT    CAMBRIDGE 

Colonel  Higginson  looks  back  on  the  anti- 
slavery  period  as  on  something  quite  unusual  in 
human  experience.  He  believes  there  has  been 
no  other  movement  of  the  moral  consciousness 
in  man  since  the  period  of  the  Puritan  upheaval 
which  has  given  such  mental  quickening  and 
force  to  those  taking  part  in  it.  He  sees  in  it 
the  better  part  of  his  training  as  an  author  ;  and 
it  has  guided  him  in  his  relations  to  the  social 
and  intellectual  agitations  of  his  time.  His 
training  as  a  reformer  he  cannot  forget ;  and  he 
still  remains  first  of  all  the  friend  of  human  prog 
ress.  In  1850,  he  lost  his  pulpit  in  Newbury- 
port  because  of  his  zealous  advocacy  of  the  anti- 
slavery  cause,  in  season  and  out  of  season.  At 
the  same  time,  he  was  the  Freesoil  candidate  for 
Congress  in  the  northeastern  district  of  Massa 
chusetts.  He  became  the  pastor  of  a  Free 
Church  in  Worcester,  not  connected  with  any 
sect,  and  organized  quite  as  much  in  behalf  of 
freedom  in  politics  as  for  the  sake  of  freedom  in 
religion.  He  was  connected  with  all  the  most 

149 


150        THOMAS    WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

stirring  anti-slavery  scenes  in  Boston,  and  he 
eagerly  favored  physical  resistance  to  the 
encroachments  of  the  pro-slavery  party.  He 
joined  in  the  Anthony  Burns  riot,  in  which  he 
was  wounded,  and  which  failed  only  through  a 
misunderstanding.  He  was  a  leader  in  organiz 
ing  Freesoil  parties  for  Kansas,  and  spent  six 
weeks  in  the  Territory  in  that  behalf.  He  was 
one  of  those  who  planned  a  party  for  the  rescu 
ing  of  John  Brown  after  his  sentence  at  Harper's 
Ferry ;  and  he  early  offered  his  services  to  the 
Governor  of  Massachusetts  on  the  breaking  out 
of  the  Civil  War.  His  zeal  for  the  blacks  was  so 
well  known,  that  it  inspired  the  following  lines  of 
some  anonymous  poetizer: 

There  was  a  young  curate  of  Worcester 

Who  could  have  a  command  if  he'd  choose  ter ; 

But  he  said  each  recruit 

Must  be  blacker  than  soot 
Or  else  he'd  go  preach  where  he  used  ter ! 

In  fact,  he  recruited  two  companies  in  the 
vicinity  of  Worcester,  and  was  given  a  captain's 
commission.  While  yet  in  camp  he  received  the 
appointment  to  the  colonelcy  of  the  First  South 
Carolina  Volunteers — "  the  first  slave  regiment 
mustered  into  the  service  of  the  United  States 
during  the  late  Civil  War," — nearly  six  months 
previous  to  Colonel  Shaw's  famous  regiment,  the 
54th  Mass.  Volunteers. 


THOMAS   WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON.        151 

Col.  Higginson  signed  the  first  call,  in  1850,  for 
a  national  convention  of  the  friends  of  woman's 
suffrage,  which  was  held  in  Worcester.  One  of 
the  leaders  of  that  movement  since,  his  fifteen- 
years'  defence  of  it  in  the  columns  of  The 
Woman  s  Journal  shows  the  faithfulness  of  his 
devotion.  His  connection  with  the  Free  Relig 
ious  Association  proves  that  he  has  been  true  to 
the  faith  of  his  youth,  and  to  his  refusal  to  con 
nect  himself  with  any  sect  in  entering  the  pulpit. 
When  that  association  lost  its  pristine  glow  and 
devotion,  with  the  passing  of  the  transcendental 
period,  he  still  remained  faithful  to  his  early  idea, 
that  all  religious  truth  comes  by  intuition.  His 
addresses  before  it  on  "  The  Sympathy  of  Relig 
ions  "  and  on  "The  Word  Philanthropy  "indicate 
the  direction  of  his  faith  in  humanity  and  in  its 
development  into  ever  better  social,  moral,  and 
spiritual  conditions. 

Whatever  the  value  of  the  independent  move 
ment  in  politics,  which  has  given  us  a  change  in 
the  political  administration  of  the  country  for  the 
first  time  in  a  quarter  of  a  century,  it  doubtless 
owes  its  inception  and  strength  largely  to  those 
men,  like  Curtis,  Higginson,  and  Julian,  who  were 
enlisted  heart  and  soul  in  the  anti-slavery  agita 
tion,  and  who  got  there  a  training  which  has 
made  them  impatient  of  party  manipulation  and 
wrong-doing.  Had  these  men  not  been  trained 


152         THOMAS    WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

to  believe  in  man  more  than  in  party,  there  would 
have  been  no  independent  organization  and  no 
revolution  in  our  politics.  In  1880,  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson  was  on  the  committee  of  one  hundred  for 
the  organization  of  a  new  party  in  case  Grant  was 
nominated  for  a  third  term  ;  and  four  years  pre 
viously  he  placed  himself  in  line  with  the  Inde 
pendents.  In  1884,  he  was  the  mover  of  the 
resolution  in  the  Boston  Reform  Club  for  the 
calling  of  a  convention,  out  of  which  grew  the 
independent  movement  of  that  year.  The  resolu 
tions  reported  by  him  were  taken  up  in  the  New 
York  convention  and  the  spirit  of  them  carried 
to  successful  issue.  He  was  a  leading  speaker 
for  the  Independents  during  the  campaign,  giving 
nearly  thirty  addresses  in  the  States  of  Massa 
chusetts,  Vermont,  Connecticut,  New  York,  and 
New  Jersey.  The  chairman  of  the  Massachusetts 
committee  wrote  him  after  the  campaign  of  the 
great  value  of  his  services,  and  thanked  him  in 
the  most  flattering  terms  in  behalf  of  the  Inde 
pendents  of  the  State. 

Colonel  Higginson  is  an  author  who  finds  his 
intellectual  inspiration  in  contact  with  Nature  and 
man,  as  well  as  in  books.  His  essays  on  out-door 
life,  and  on  physical  culture,  show  the  activity  of 
his  nature  and  his  zeal  for  all  kinds  of  knowledge. 
He  easily  interests  himself  in  all  subjects ;  he  can 
turn  his  mind  readily  from  one  pursuit  to  another, 


THOMAS   WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON.        153 

and  he  enjoys  all  with  an  equal  relish.  He  has  a 
love  of  mathematics  such  as  few  men  possess ; 
and,  when  in  college,  Professor  Peirce  anticipated 
that  would  be  the  direction  of  his  studies.  Dur 
ing  the  time  of  the  anti-slavery  riots  he  one  day 
met  the  Professor  in  the  street,  and  remarked  to 
him  that  he  should  enjoy  an  imprisonment  of 
several  months  for  the  sake  of  the  leisure  it  would 
give  him  to  read  La  Place's  "  M£canique  Celeste." 
"  I  heartily  wish  you  might  have  that  oppor 
tunity,"  was  the  Professor's  reply;  for  he  disliked 
the  anti-slavery  agitation  as  much  as  he  loved  his 
own  special  line  of  studies.  Colonel  Higginson 
has  also  been  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  natural  his 
tory,  and  he  could  easily  have  given  his  life  to 
that  pursuit.  Perhaps  not  less  ardent  has  been 
his  interest  in  the  moral  and  political  sciences,  to 
the  practical  interpretation  of  which  his  life  has 
always  been  more  or  less  devoted.  Not  only  has 
he  been  the  champion  of  the  reforms  already 
mentioned,  but  he  has  been  the  zealous  friend  of 
education.  For  three  years  a  member  of  the 
Massachusetts  State  Board  of  Education,  he  has 
also  been  on  the  visiting  committees  of  Harvard 
University  and  the  Bridgewater  Normal  School 
for  several  years.  He  was  in  the  Massachusetts 
Legislature  during  1880  and  1881.  He  has  been 
an  active  member  of  the  Social  Science  Associa 
tion  ;  and  he  is  now  the  President  of  the  Round 


154        THOMAS   WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

Table  Club  of  Boston,  which  grew  out  of  that 
organization. 

This  versatility  of  talent  and  activity  has  had 
its  important  influence  on  Colonel  Higginson's 
life  as  an  author.  It  has  given  vitality,  freshness, 
and  a  high  aim  to  his  work ;  but  it  has,  perhaps, 
scattered  its  force.  All  who  have  read  his  prin 
cipal  works,  as  now  published  in  a  uniform  edition 
by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  will  have  noted  that 
they  embody  many  phases  of  his  activity.  There 
are  the  purely  literary  essays,  the  two  volumes  of 
Newport  stories  and  sketches,  the  out-door  essays, 
the  volume  of  army  reminiscences,  and  the  volume 
of  short  essays  (from  the  Independent,  Tribune, 
and  Woman  s  Journal)  devoted  to  the  culture  and 
advancement  of  woman.  The  admiring  readers 
of  the  best  of  these  volumes  can  but  regret  that 
in  recent  years  his  attention  has  been  so  exclu 
sively  drawn  to  historical  writing.  Though  his 
later  work  has  been  done  in  the  finest  manner,  it 
does  not  give  a  free  opportunity  for  the  expres 
sion  of  Colonel  Higginson's  charming  style  and 
manner.  The  day  when  he  returns  to  purely 
original  work,  in  the  line  of  his  own  finished  and 
graceful  interpretations  of  nature  and  life,  will  be 
hailed  with  joy  by  the  lovers  of  his  books. 

Any  account  of  the  personal  characteristics  of 
Colonel  Higginson  would  be  imperfect  which 
omitted  to  mention  his  success  as  a  public  speaker 


THOMAS   WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON.        155 

and  as  an  after-dinner  orator.  He  was  trained 
for  public  speaking  on  the  anti-slavery  platform, 
a  better  school  than  any  now  provided  for  the 
development  of  youthful  talent.  When  preaching 
in  Worcester  he  began  to  deliver  literary  lectures 
before  the  flourishing  lyceums  of  that  day.  As  a 
lecturer  he  was  successful ;  and  he  continued  for 
many  years  to  be  a  favorite  of  the  lyceum-goers, 
until  the  degeneracy  of  the  popular  lecture  caused 
him  to  withdraw  from  that  field  of  literary  effort. 
The  lecture  on  "  The  Aristocracy  of  the  Dollar," 
which  he  now  occasionally  gives  to  special  au 
diences,  has  been  in  use  for  more  than  twenty 
years,  and  it  has  been  transformed  many  times. 
Another  well-worn  lecture  is  that  on  "  Literature 
in  a  Republic,"  which  he  repeats  less  often. 
Among  his  other  subjects  have  been  "  Thinking 
Animals "  (instinct  and  reason),  and  "  How  to 
Study  History."  The  paper  in  the  "Atlantic 
Essays"  on  "The  Puritan  Minister"  long  did 
duty  as  a  lyceum  lecture ;  and  those  who  have 
read  it  can  but  think  it  well  fitted  to  the  purpose. 
On  the  platform  Colonel  Higginson  is  self-con 
trolled  in  manner,  and  strong  in  his  reserved 
power.  He  does  not  captivate  his  hearer  by  the 
rush  and  swing  and  over-mastering  weight  of  his 
oratory,  but  by  the  freshness,  grace  and  finish  of 
his  thought.  He  often  appears  on  the  platform 
in  Cambridge  and  Boston  in  behalf  of  the  causes 


156        THOMAS    WENT  WORTH  HIGGINSON. 

for  which  those  cities  are  noted,  and  no  one  is 
more  popular  or  listened  to  with  greater  satisfac 
tion.  Perhaps  he  only  needs  the  passion  and  the 
stormy  vigor  of  a  cause  which  completely  com 
mands  and  carries  captive  his  nature  to  make  one 
of  the  most  successful  of  popular  orators.  During 
the  political  campaign  of  1884  his  addresses  were 
marked  by  their  force  and  fire  ;  and  he  was  called 
for  wherever  there  was  a  demand  for  an  enthu 
siastic  and  vigorous  presentation  of  the  Inde 
pendent  position.  As  an  after-dinner  speaker, 
however,  Colonel  Higginson's  gifts  shine  out 
most  clearly  and  reveal  the  charm  of  his  style  to 
the  best  advantage. 

It  is  the  public  rather  than  the  private  side  of 
Colonel  Higginson's  character  which  has  been 
thus  revealed ;  but  it  is  the  side  which  is  most  im 
portant  to  the  understanding  and  appreciation  of 
his  books.  It  is  the  quiet  and  busy  life  of  the 
scholar  and  man-of-letters  he  leads  in  Cambridge, 
but  of  a  man-of-letters  who  is  intensely  inter 
ested  in  all  that  pertains  to  his  country's  welfare 
and  all  that  makes  for  the  elevation  of  humanity. 
He  is  ready  at  any  moment  to  leave  his  books 
and  his  pen  to  engage  in  affairs,  and  in  settling 
questions  of  public  importance,  when  the  cause 
of  right  and  truth  demands.  Quickly  and  keenly 
sympathetic  with  the  life  of  his  time,  he  will  never 
permit  the  writing  of  books  to  absorb  his  heart 


THOMAS    WENTWORTH  H1GGINSON.        157 

to  the  exclusion  of  whatever  human  interests  his 
country  calls  him  to  consider. 

Born  and  bred  in  Cambridge,  Colonel  Higginson 
lived  in  Newburyport,  Worcester,  and  Newport 
from  1847  to  1878.  In  the  latter  year  he  returned 
to  Cambridge,  and  took  up  his  residence  in  a 
house  near  the  University.  Soon  after,  he  built  a 
house  on  Observatory  Hill,  between  Cambridge 
Square  and  Mount  Auburn  Cemetery,  on  ground 
over  which  he  played  as  a  boy.  It  is  a  plain- 
looking  structure,  combining  the  Queen  Anne 
and  the  old  colonial  style,  but  very  cosey  and 
homelike  within.  The  hall  is  modeled  after  that 
of  an  old  family  mansion  in  Portsmouth ;  and 
many  other  features  of  the  house  are  copied  from 
old  New  England  dwellings.  A  sword  presented 
to  Colonel  Higginson  by  the  freemen  of  Beaufort, 
S.  C,  the  colors  borne  by  his  regiment,  and  other 
relics  of  the  Civil  War,  decorate  the  hall.  To  the 
left  on  entering  is  the  study,  along  one  side  of 
which  are  well-filled  book-shelves,  on  another  a 
piano,  while  a  bright  fire  burns  in  the  open  grate. 
Beyond  is  a  smaller  room,  lined  on  all  sides 
with  books,  in  which  Colonel  Higginson  does  his 
writing.  His  book-shelves  hold  many  rare  books ; 
a  considerable  collection  by  and  about  women, 
which  he  prizes  highly  and  often  uses,  he  presented 
to  the  Boston  Public  Library,  where  it  is  known  as 
the  Galatea  Collection.  His  study  has  no  special 


158       THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

ornaments ;  its  furniture  is  simple,  and  the  book 
cases  are  of  the  plainest  sort.  The  most  attrac 
tive  article  of  furniture  the  room  contains  is  his 
own  easy-chair,  which  came  to  him  from  the  Went- 
worth  family,  where  it  had  been  an  heirloom  for 
generations.  Back  of  the  parlor  is  the  dining- 
room,  which  is  sunny  and  cheerful,  adorned  with 
flowers,  and  adapted  to  family  life  and  conversa 
tion.  The  pictures  that  cover  the  walls  all  through 
the  house  have  been  selected  with  discriminating 
appreciation.  Many  indications  of  an  artistic  taste 
appear  throughout  the  house;  and  everywhere 
there  are  signs  of  the  domestic  comfort  the  Colo 
nel  enjoys  so  much.  His  present  wife  is  a  niece 
of  Longfellow's  first  wife.  Her  literary  tastes 
have  found  expression  in  her  "  Seashore  and  Prai 
rie,"  a  volume  of  pleasant  sketches,  in  the  publica 
tion  of  which  Longfellow  took  a  hearty  interest; 
and  in  her  "  Room  for  One  More,"  a  delightful 
children's  book.  Domestic  in  his  tastes,  his  home 
is  to  Colonel  Higginson  the  centre  of  the  world. 
Its  "bright,  particular  star"  is  his  daughter  of 
twenty,  his  only  child,  to  whom  he  is  devotedly 
attached.  His  happiest  hours  are  spent  in  her 
company,  and  in  watching  the  growth  of  her  mind. 
Everything  about  Colonel  Higginson 's  house 
indicates  a  refined  and  cultivated  taste,  but  noth 
ing  of  the  dilettante  spirit  is  to  be  seen.  He  loves 
what  is  artistic,  but  he  prefers  not  to  sacrifice  to 


TffOMA  S  WENT  IVOR  TH  HIGGINSON.        1 5  9 

it  the  home  feeling  and  the  home  comforts.  He 
writes  all  the  better  for  his  quiet  and  home-keep 
ing  environment,  and  for  the  wide  circle  of  his 
social  and  personal  relations  with  the  best  men  and 
women  of  his  time.  His  literary  work  is  done  in 
the  morning,  and  he  seldom  takes  up  the  pen  after 
the  task  of  the  forenoon  is  accomplished.  Most 
of  his  work  is  done  slowly  and  deliberately,  with 
careful  elaboration  and  thorough  revision.  In  this 
manner  he  wrote  his  review  of  Dr.  Holmes's 
"Emerson"  in  The  Nation ;  and  his  essays  in  the 
same  periodical  following  the  deaths  of  Longfel 
low,  Emerson,  and  Phillips.  He  thoroughly  en 
joyed  the  writing  of  the  papers  published  in  Har 
per  s  Monthly,  which  were  reissued  in  book  form 
as  his  "  Larger  History  of  the  United  States,"  and 
he  entered  on  the  task  of  hunting  out  the  illustra 
tions  and  the  illustrative  details  with  an  antiqua 
rian's  zeal  and  a  poet's  love  of  the  romantic.  His 
address  on  a  Revolutionary  vagabond  shows  the 
fascination  which  the  old-time  has  for  him  in  all 
its  features  of  quaintness,  romance  and  pictur- 
esqueness. 

Colonel  Higginson  finds  the  morning  hour 
the  most  conducive  to  freshness  and  vigor  of 
thought,  and  the  most  promotive  of  health  of 
body  and  mind.  After  dinner  he  devotes  himself 
to  his  family,  to  social  recreation,  to  communings 
with  and  studies  of  Nature,  and  to  business.  He 


160        THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

is  quite  at  home  in  Cambridge  society ;  and,  being 
to  the  manner  born,  he  enters  into  its  intellectual 
and  social  recreations  with  relish  and  satisfaction. 
He  is  a  ready  and  interesting  converser,  bright, 
witty,  full  of  anecdote,  and  quick  with  illustra 
tions  and  quotations  of  the  most  pertinent  kind. 
His  wide  reading,  large  experience  of  life,  and 
extensive  acquaintance  with  men  and  women 
give  him  rich  materials  for  conversation,  which  he 
knows  how  to  use  gracefully  and  with  good  effect. 
He  readily  wins  the  confidence  of  those  he  meets. 
Women  find  him  a  welcome  companion,  whose 
kindliness  and  chivalric  courtesy  win  their 
heartiest  admiration.  They  turn  to  him  with 
confidence,  as  to  the  champion  of  their  sex,  and 
he  naturally  numbers  many  bright  and  noble 
women  among  his  friends. 

He  is  a  dignified,  ready  and  agreeable  presiding 
officer.  As  a  leader  of  club  life  he  is  eminently 
successful,  whether  it  be  the  Round  Table,  the 
Browning,  or  the  Appalachian  Mountain  Club. 
He  enjoys  a  certain  amount  of  this  kind  of  intel 
lectual  recreation ;  and  fortunate  is  the  club 
which  secures  his  kindly  and  gracious  guidance. 
Very  early  a  reader  of  Browning,  he  is  thoroughly 
familiar  with  the  works  of  that  poet,  and  rejoices 
in  whatever  extends  a  knowledge  of  his  writings. 
Especially  has  he  been  the  soul  of  the  Round- 
Table  Club,  which  meets  fortnightly  in  Boston 


THOMA  S  WEN  T  WOR  TH  HIGGINSON.         1 6 1 

parlors — an  association  full  of  good-fellowship, 
the  spirit  of  thoughtful  inquiry,  and  earnest 
sympathy  with  the  best  intellectual  life  of  the 
time. 

As  Colonel  Higginson  walks  along  the  street, 
much  of  the  soldier's  bearing  appears  ;  for  he  is 
tall  and  erect,  and  keeps  the  soldier's  true  dig 
nity  of  movement.  His  chivalric  spirit  pervades 
much  that  he  has  written,  but  it  is  tempered  and 
refined  by  the  artistic  instinct  for  grace  and 
beauty.  He  has  the  manly  and  heroic  temper, 
but  none  of  the  soldier's  rudeness  or  love  of  vio 
lence.  So  he  appears  in  his  books  as  of  knightly 
metal,  but  as  a  knight  who  also  loves  the  role  of 
the  troubadour.  A  master  of  style,  he  does  not 
write  for  the  sake  of  decoration  and  ornament. 
He  is  emphatically  a  scholar  and  a  lover  of 
books,  but  not  in  the  scholastic  sense.  A  lover 
of  ideas,  an  idealist  by  nature  and  conviction, 
he  sees  in  the  things  of  the  human  spirit  what  is 
more  than  all  the  scholar's  lore  and  knowledge 
wrung  from  the  physical  world.  He  is  a  scholar 
who  learns  of  men  and  events  more  than  of 
books ;  and  yet  what  wealth  of  classic  and  liter 
ary  allusion  is  his  throughout  all  his  books  and 
addresses!  Whether  in  the  study  or  in  the  camp, 
on  the  platform  or  in  the  State  House,  his  tastes 
are  literary  and  scholarly  ;  but  his  sympathies  are 
with  all  that  is  natural,  manly  and  progressive. 


1 62  THOMAS  W&NTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 

Seven  months  of  last  year  Colonel  Higginson 
spent  in  Europe,  and  he  has  just  finished  a  life  of 
Longfellow  in  the  "American  Men  of  Letters" 
series. 

GEORGE  WILLIS  COOKE. 


DR.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


163 


DR.   OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

IN    BEACON    STREET 

"It  is  strange,"  remarks  Lady  Wilde,  "how 
often  a  great  genius  has  given  a  soul  to  a  locality." 
We  may  prefer  our  own  illustration  to  hers,  and 
remember  in  simpler  fashion  what  Judd's  "  Marga 
ret  "  did  for  a  little  village  in  Maine,  or  what 
Howe  did  for  a  little  Western  town,  instead  of 
insisting  that  Walter  Scott  created  Scotland  or 
Byron  the  Rhine.  But  the  remark  suggests, 
perhaps,  quite  as  forcibly,  what  locality  has 
done  for  genius.  The  majority  of  writers  who 
have  tried  to  deal  with  people,  whether  as 
novelists,  poets,  or  essayists,  localize  their  hu 
man  beings  until  "  local  color "  becomes  one  of 
the  most  essential  factors  of  their  success. 
Sometimes,  like  Judd  and  Howe,  they  make  the 
most  of  a  very  narrow  environment ;  sometimes, 
like  Cable,  they  make  their  environment  include 
a  whole  race,  till  the  work  becomes  historical  as 
well  as  photographic;  sometimes,  like  Mrs.  Jack 
son,  they  travel  for  a  new  environment;  some 
times,  like  Howells  and  James,  they  travel  from 

165 


1 66  DR.  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

environment  to  environment,  and  write  now  of 
Venice,  now  of  London,  now  of  Boston,  with  skill 
equal  to  the  ever-varying  opportunity;  some 
times,  like  George  Eliot  writing  "  Romola,"  or 
Harriet  Prescott  Spofford  writing  "  In  a  Cellar," 
they  stay  at  home  and  give  wonderful  pictures  of 
a  life  and  time  they  have  never  known — com 
pelled,  at  least,  however,  to  seek  the  environment 
of  a  library.  Even  Shakspeare,  who  was  cer 
tainly  not  a  slave  to  his  surroundings,  sought 
local  color  from  books  to  an  extent  that  we  real 
ize  on  seeing  Irving's  elaborate  efforts  to  repro 
duce  it.  Even  Hawthorne,  escaping  from  the 
material  world  whenever  he  could  into  the  realm 
of  spirit  and  imagination,  made  profound  studies 
of  Salem  or  Italy  the  basis  from  which  he  flew  to 
the  empyrean.  To  understand  perfectly  how  fine 
such  work  as  this  is,  one  must  have,  one's  self, 
either  from  experience  or  study,  some  knowledge 
of  the  localities  so  admirably  reproduced. 

The  genius  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  almost 
unique  in  the  fact  that,  dealing  almost  exclusively 
with  human  beings — not  merely  human  nature  ex 
hibited  in  maxims — rarely  wandering  into  discus 
sions  of  books  or  art  or  landscape— it  was  almost 
entirely  independent  of  any  environment  whatever. 
He  was  anchored  to  one  locality  almost  as  securely 
as  Judd  was  to  New  England  or  Howe  to  the 
West ;  for  a  chronological  record  of  the  events  of 


DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  167 

his  life  makes  no  mention  of  any  journeys,  except 
the  two  years  and  a  half  as  medical  student  in 
Europe,  when  he  was  twenty-four  years  old,  and 
"One  Hundred  Days  in  Europe  "  in  1887.  He 
spent  every  winter  in  Boston,  every  summer 
at  Beverly  Farms,  which,  like  Nahant,  may 
almost  be  called  "  cold  roast  Boston " ;  yet 
during  the  fifty  years  he  wrote  from  Boston,  he 
neither  sought  his  material  from  his  special 
environment  nor  tried  to  escape  from  it.  It  is 
human  nature,  not  Boston  nature,  that  he  has 
drawn  for  us.  Once,  in  "  Elsie  Venner,"  there  is 
an  escape  like  Hawthorne's  into  the  realm  of  the 
psychological  and  weird  ;  several  times  in  the 
novels  there  are  photographic  bits  of  a  New  Eng 
land  "  party,"  or  of  New  England  character  ;  but 
the  great  mass  of  the  work  which  has  appealed  to 
so  wide  a  class  of  readers  with  such  permanent 
power  appeals  to  them  because,  dealing  with  men 
and  women,  it  deals  with  no  particular  men  and 
women.  Indeed,  it  is  hardly  even  men,  women, 
and  children  that  troop  through  his  pages  ;  but 
rather  man,  woman,  and  child.  His  human  beings 
are  no  more  Bostonians  than  the  ducks  of  his 
"  Aviary  "  are  Charles  River  ducks.  They  are 
ducks.  He  happened  to  see  them  on  the  Charles 
River  ;  nay,  within  the  still  narrower  limits  of  his 
own  window-pane  ;  still,  they  are  ducks,  and  not 
merely  Boston  ducks.  The  universality  of  his 


1 68  DR.  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

genius  is  wonderful,  not  because  he  exhibits  it 
in  writing  now  a  clever  novel  about  Rome,  now  a 
powerful  sketch  of  Montana,  and  anon  a  remark 
able  book  about  Japan ;  but  it  is  wonderful  be 
cause  it  discovers  within  the  limits  of  Boston  only 
what  is  universal.  To  understand  perfectly  how 
fine  such  work  as  this  is,  you  need  never  have 
been  anywhere,  yourself,  or  have  read  any  other 
book  ;  any  more  than  you  would  have  to  be  one 
of  the  "  Boys  of  '29  "  to  appreciate  the  charming 
class-poems  that  have  been  delighting  the  world, 
as  well  as  the  "  Boys,"  for  fifty  years.  In  "  Little 
Boston  "  he  has,  it  is  true,  impaled  some  of  the 
characteristics  which  are  generally  known  as  Bos- 
tonian  ;  but  his  very  success  in  doing  this  is  of  a 
kind  to  imply  that  he  had  studied  his  Bostonian 
only  in  Paris  or  St.  Louis  ;  for  the  peculiar  traits 
described  are  those  no  Bostonian  is  supposed  to 
be  able  to  see  for  himself,  still  less  to  acknowl 
edge.  If  Dr.  Holmes  were  to  have  spent  a  win 
ter  in  New  York,  he  would  have  carried  back  with 
him,  not  material  for  a  "  keen  satire  on  New  York 
society,"  but  only  more  material  of  what  is  hu 
man.  Nay,  he  probably  would  not  have  carried 
back  with  him  anything  at  all  which  he  had  not 
already  found  in  Boston,  since  he  seems  to  have 
found  everything  there. 

So  there  is  no  need  of  knowing  how  or  where 
Dr.   Holmes    lived,  or  what   books    he  read,  to 


DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  169 

understand  and  enjoy  his  work.  But  all  the  same, 
one  likes  to  know  where  he  lived,  from  a  warm, 
affectionate,  personal  interest  in  the  man  ;  just  as 
we  like  to  know  of  our  dearest  friends,  not  only 
that  they  dwell  in  a  certain  town,  but  that  their 
parlor  is  furnished  in  red,  and  that  the  piano 
stands  opposite  the  sofa.  Of  his  earliest  home, 
at  Cambridge,  he  has  himself  told  us  in  words 
which  we  certainly  will  not  try  to  improve  upon. 
Later  came  the  home  of  his  early  married  life  in 
Montgomery  Place,  of  which  he  has  said  :  "  When 
he  entered  that  door,  two  shadows  glided  over  the 
threshold ;  five  lingered  in  the  doorway  when  he 
passed  through  it  for  the  last  time,  and  one  of 
the  shadows  was  claimed  by  its  owner  to  be  longer 
than  his  own."  A  few  brief,  half-mystical  allu 
sions  such  as  this  are  all  that  we  gain  from  his 
writings  about  his  personal  surroundings,  as  a  few 
simple  allusions  to  certain  streets  and  buildings 
are  all  that  localize  the  "  Autocrat "  as  a  Bos- 
tonian.  For  the  man  who  has  almost  exception 
ally  looked  into  his  own  heart  to  write  has  found 
in  his  heart,  as  he  has  in  his  city,  never  what  was 
personal  or  special,  always  what  was  human  and 
universal. 

But  it  will  be  no  betrayal  of  trust  for  us  to  fol 
low  out  the  dim  outline  a  little,  and  tell  how  the 
five  shadows  flitted  together  from  Montgomery 
Place  to  Charles  Street.  Then,  after  another 


17°  DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

dozen  years,  still  another  change  seemed  desirable. 
Dr.  Holmes  felt  as  few  men  do  the  charm  of  asso 
ciation,  and  the  sacredness  of  what  is  endeared  by 
age ;  but  the  very  roundness  of  his  nature  which 
made  him  appreciate  not  only  what  is  human,  but 
everything  that  is  human,  made  him  keenly  alive 
to  the  charm  of  what  is  new  if  it  is  beautiful.  A 
rounded  nature  finds  it  hard  to  be  consistent.  He 
wrote  once :  "  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  have  been 
born  in  an  old  house  haunted  by  recollections," 
and  he  asserted  more  than  once  the  dignity  of  hav 
ing,  not  only  ancestors,  but  ancestral  homes ;  yet 
if  we  were  to  have  reminded  him  of  this  in  his 
beautiful  new  house  with  all  the  latest  luxuries 
and  improvements,  we  can  imagine  the  kindly 
smile  with  which  he  would  have  gazed  round  the 
great,  beautiful  room,  with  its  solid  woods  and 
plate-glass  windows,  and  said  gently :  "  I  know  I 
ought  to  like  the  other,  and  I  do,  but  how  can  I 
help  liking  this,  too  ?  "  Yes,  the  charming  new 
architecture  and  the  lovely  new  houses  were  too 
much  for  them;  they  would  flit  again — though 
with  a  sigh.  Not  out  of  New  England — no,  in 
deed  !  not  away  from  Boston — certainly  not. 
Hardly,  indeed,  out  of  Charles  Street;  for 
although  a  "  very  plain  brown-stone  front  would 
do,"  provided  its  back  windows  looked  upon  the 
river,  the  river  they  must  have. 

Dr.    Holmes   wanted,    not   big  front   windows 


DR.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.  171 

from  which  to  study  the  Bostonians,  but  a  big  bay- 
window  at  the  back,  from  which  he  could  see  the 
ducks  and  gulls  and  think  how  like  to  human  na 
ture  are  all  their  little  lives  and  loves  and  sorrows. 
So  little  is  there  in  his  work  of  what  is  personal, 
that  it  is  possible  there  are  people — in  England — 
who  really  think  the  "  Autocrat "  dwelt  in  the 
boarding-house  of  his  books.  But  those  who  be 
lieve  with  him  that,  as  a  rule,  genius  means  ances 
tors,  are  not  surprised  to  know  that  Dr.  Holmes 
himself  had  many  more  than  the  average  allowance 
of  ancestors,  and  that,  as  a  descendant  of  Dudley, 
Bradstreet,  the  Olivers,  Quincys,  and  Jacksons, 
his  "  hut  of  stone  "  fronted  on  one  of  Boston's  most 
aristocratic  streets,  though  the  dear  river  behind 
it  flows  almost  close  to  its  little  garden  gate. 
Under  his  windows  all  the  morning  trooped  the 
loveliest  children  of  the  city  in  the  daintiest  ap 
parel,  wheeled  in  the  costliest  of  perambulators  by 
the  whitest-capped  of  French  nurses.  Past  his 
door  every  afternoon  the  "  swellest "  turn-outs 
of  the  great  city  passed  on  their  afternoon  parade. 
Near  his  steps,  at  the  hour  for  afternoon  tea,  the 
handsomest  coupes  came  to  anchor  and  deposited 
their  graceful  freight.  But  this  is  not  the  pan 
orama,  that  the  Doctor  himself  was  watching. 
Whether  in  the  beautiful  great  dining-room, 
where  he  was  first  to  acknowledge  the  sway  at 
breakfast,  luncheon  and  dinner,  of  a  still  gentler 


I?2  DR.   OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

Autocrat  than  himself,  or  in  the  library  upstairs, 
which  was  the  heart  of  the  home,  he  was  always  on 
the  river  side  of  the  house.  The  pretty  little 
reception-room  downstairs  on  the  Beacon  Street 
side,  he  would  tell  you  himself,  with  a  merry 
smile,  is  a  good  place  for  your  "  things " ;  you 
yourself  must  come  directly  up  into  the  library, 
and  look  on  the  river,  broad  enough  just  here 
to  seem  a  beautiful  lake.  I  know  of  no  other 
room  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city  where  one 
so  completely  forgot  the  nearness  of  the  world 
as  in  this  library.  Even  if  the  heavy  doors 
stood  open  into  the  hall,  one  forgot  the  front 
of  the  house  and  thought  only  of  the  beauti 
ful  expanse  of  water  that  seemed  to  shut  off  all 
approach  save  from  the  gulls.  News  from  the 
humming  city  must  come  to  you,  it  would  seem, 
only  in  sound  of  marriage  or  funeral  bells  in  the 
steeples  of  the  many  towns,  distinct  but  distant, 
looming  across  the  water.  And  this,  not  because 
the  talk  by  that  cheerful  fire  was  of  the  "Over- 
Soul"  or  the  "Infinite,"  so  unworldly,  so  intro 
spective,  so  wholly  of  things  foreign  or  intellec 
tual.  Nothing  could  be  more  human  than  the 
chat  that  went  on  there,  or  the  laugh  that  rang 
out  so  cheerily  at  such  frequent  intervals.  Even 
with  the  shadow  of  a  deep  personal  grief  over 
the  hearthstone,  a  noble  cheerfulness  that  would 
not  let  others  feel  the  shadow  kept  the  room 


DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  173 

bright  though  the  heart  was  heavy.  Are  there  pic 
tures  ?  There  is  certainly  one  picture ;  for  al 
though  a  fine  Copley  hangs  on  one  wall,  and  one 
of  the  beautiful  framed  embroideries  (for  which 
Dr.  Holmes's  daughter-in-law  is  famous)  on  an 
other,  who  will  not  first  be  conscious  that  in 
a  certain  corner  hangs  the  original  portrait  of 
Dorothy  Q.?  Exactly  as  it  is  described  in  the 
poem,  who  can  look  at  it  without  breathing 
gratefully 

"  O  Damsel  Dorothy,  Dorothy  Q., 
Great  is  the  gift  we  owe  to  you," 

and  thinking  almost  with  a  shudder  that  if, 

"  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No," 

there  would  have  been  no  Dr.  Holmes.  Some 
body  there  might  have  been  ;  but  though  he  had 
been  only  "  one-tenth  another  to  nine-tenths " 
him,  assuredly  the  loss  of  even  a  tenth  would 
have  been  a  bitter  loss. 

Books  there  are  in  this  library,  of  course;  but 
you  were  as  little  conscious  of  the  books  as  you  were 
of  the  world.  You  were  only  really  conscious  of  the 
presence  in  the  room,  and  the  big  desk  on  which 
was  lying  the  pen  that  wrote  both  "  The  Autocrat  of 
the  Breakfast  Table  "  and  "  The  Professor."  As  you 
took  it  up,  it  was  pretty  to  see  the  look  that  stole 
over  Dr.  Holmes's  face;  it  was  the  twinkle  of  a 


174          DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

smile  that  seemed  to  mean,  "  Yes,  it  was  the  pen 
that  did  it!  /  never  could  have  done  it  in  the 
world !  "  His  success  gave  him  a  deep  and  genuine 
pleasure,  largely  due  to  the  surprise  of  it.  At  forty- 
six  he  believed  he  had  done  all  that  could  be  ex 
pected  of  him,  and  was  content  to  rest  his  repu 
tation — as  well  he  might — on  those  earlier  poems, 
which  will  always  make  a  part  of  even  his  latest 
fame.  But  the  greater  fame  which  followed  was 
— not  greatness  thrust  upon  him,  for  genius  such 
as  his  is  something  more  than  the  patience  which 
is  sometimes  genius, — but  certainly  greatness 
dragged  out  of  him.  The  editors  of  the  proposed 
Atlantic  insisted  that  he  should  write  for  it.  The 
Doctor  did  not  yield,  till,  as  he  himself  tells  it, 
with  another  twinkling  smile,  they  invited  him 
to  a  "  convincing  dinner  at  Porter's."  Feeling 
very  good-natured  immediately  after,  he  promised 
to  "  try,"  and  a  little  later  sent  off  a  few  sheets 
which  he  somewhat  dubiously  hoped  would  "do." 
The  storm  of  greeting  and  applause  that  followed 
even  these  first  sheets  filled  him  with  amazement, 
but  with  genuine  delight.  It  was  beautiful  to  see 
how  deeply  it  touched  him  to  know  that  thousands 
of  readers  think  "  The  Autocrat "  the  most  charm 
ing  book  they  own.  For  this  was  not  the  arrogant 
satisfaction  of  the  "  master "  who  anounnces : 
"  Listen !  I  have  composed  the  most  wonderful 
sonata  that  the  world  has  ever  heard !  "  Still  less 


DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  i?5 

was  it  the  senseless  arrogance  of  a  foolish  violin 
that  might  say :  "  Listen !  you  shall  hear  from  me 
the  most  superb  music  you  can  imagine  !  "  Rather 
was  it  the  low-voiced,  wondering  content  of  an 
seolian  harp,  that  lying  quietly  upon  the  window- 
sill,  with  no  thought  that  it  is  there  for  anything 
but  to  enjoy  itself,  suddenly  finds  wonderful  har 
monies  stealing  through  its  heart  and  out  into  the 
world,  and  sees  a  group  of  gladdened  listeners  gath 
ering  about  it.  "  How  wonderful !  how  wonderful 
that  /  have  been  chosen  to  give  this  music  to  the 
world !  Am  I  not  greatly  to  be  envied  ?  "  As  the 
harp  thus  breathes  its  gratitude  to  the  breeze  that 
stirs  it,  so  Dr.  Holmes  looked  his  gratitude  to  the 
pen  that  "  helped  "  him ;  with  something  of  the 
same  wonder  at  personal  success  that  made  Thack 
eray  exclaim  :  "  Down  on  your  knees,  my  boy ! 
That  is  the  house  where  I  wrote  '  Vanity  Fair ' ! " 
Do  we  not  all  love  Thackeray  and  Holmes  the  bet 
ter  for  caring  so  much  about  our  caring  for  them? 
But  it  is  growing  late  and  dark.  Across  the 
river — one  almost  says  across  the  bay — the  lights 
are  twinkling,  and  we  must  go.  As  the  cool  breeze 
touches  our  faces,  how  strange  it  seems  to  see  the 
paved  and  lighted  street,  the  crowding  houses,  the 
throng  of  carriages,  and  to  realize  that  the  great, 
throbbing,  fashionable  world  has  been  so  near 
to  us  all  the  afternoon  while  we  have  been  so  far 
from  it ! 


1 68  DR.  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 

genius  is  wonderful,  not  because  he  exhibits  it 
in  writing  now  a  clever  novel  about  Rome,  now  a 
powerful  sketch  of  Montana,  and  anon  a  remark 
able  book  about  Japan ;  but  it  is  wonderful  be 
cause  it  discovers  within  the  limits  of  Boston  only 
what  is  universal.  To  understand  perfectly  how 
fine  such  work  as  this  is,  you  need  never  have 
been  anywhere,  yourself,  or  have  read  any  other 
book  ;  any  more  than  you  would  have  to  be  one 
of  the  "  Boys  of  '29  "  to  appreciate  the  charming 
class-poems  that  have  been  delighting  the  world, 
as  well  as  the  "  Boys,"  for  fifty  years.  In  "  Little 
Boston  "  he  has,  it  is  true,  impaled  some  of  the 
characteristics  which  are  generally  known  as  Bos- 
tonian  ;  but  his  very  success  in  doing  this  is  of  a 
kind  to  imply  that  he  had  studied  his  Bostonian 
only  in  Paris  or  St.  Louis  ;  for  the  peculiar  traits 
described  are  those  no  Bostonian  is  supposed  to 
be  able  to  see  for  himself,  still  less  to  acknowl 
edge.  If  Dr.  Holmes  were  to  have  spent  a  win 
ter  in  New  York,  he  would  have  carried  back  with 
him,  not  material  for  a  "  keen  satire  on  New  York 
society,"  but  only  more  material  of  what  is  hu 
man.  Nay,  he  probably  would  not  have  carried 
back  with  him  anything  at  all  which  he  had  not 
already  found  in  Boston,  since  he  seems  to  have 
found  everything  there. 

So  there  is  no  need  of  knowing  how  or  where 
Dr.   Holmes   lived,  or  what   books    he  read,  to 


DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  169 

understand  and  enjoy  his  work.  But  all  the  same, 
one  likes  to  know  where  he  lived,  from  a  warm, 
affectionate,  personal  interest  in  the  man  ;  just  as 
we  like  to  know  of  our  dearest  friends,  not  only 
that  they  dwell  in  a  certain  town,  but  that  their 
parlor  is  furnished  in  red,  and  that  the  piano 
stands  opposite  the  sofa.  Of  his  earliest  home, 
at  Cambridge,  he  has  himself  told  us  in  words 
which  we  certainly  will  not  try  to  improve  upon. 
Later  came  the  home  of  his  early  married  life  in 
Montgomery  Place,  of  which  he  has  said  :  "When 
he  entered  that  door,  two  shadows  glided  over  the 
threshold ;  five  lingered  in  the  doorway  when  he 
passed  through  it  for  the  last  time,  and  one  of 
the  shadows  was  claimed  by  its  owner  to  be  longer 
than  his  own."  A  few  brief,  half-mystical  allu 
sions  such  as  this  are  all  that  we  gain  from  his 
writings  about  his  personal  surroundings,  as  a  few 
simple  allusions  to  certain  streets  and  buildings 
are  all  that  localize  the  "  Autocrat "  as  a  Bos- 
tonian.  For  the  man  who  has  almost  exception 
ally  looked  into  his  own  heart  to  write  has  found 
in  his  heart,  as  he  has  in  his  city,  never  what  was 
personal  or  special,  always  what  was  human  and 
universal. 

But  it  will  be  no  betrayal  of  trust  for  us  to  fol 
low  out  the  dim  outline  a  little,  and  tell  how  the 
five  shadows  flitted  together  from  Montgomery 
Place  to  Charles  Street.  Then,  after  another 


17°  DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

dozen  years,  still  another  change  seemed  desirable. 
Dr.  Holmes  felt  as  few  men  do  the  charm  of  asso 
ciation,  and  the  sacredness  of  what  is  endeared  by 
age;  but  the  very  roundness  of  his  nature  which 
made  him  appreciate  not  only  what  is  human,  but 
everything  that  is  human,  made  him  keenly  alive 
to  the  charm  of  what  is  new  if  it  is  beautiful.  A 
rounded  nature  finds  it  hard  to  be  consistent.  He 
wrote  once :  "  It  is  a  great  happiness  to  have  been 
born  in  an  old  house  haunted  by  recollections," 
and  he  asserted  more  than  once  the  dignity  of  hav 
ing,  not  only  ancestors,  but  ancestral  homes ;  yet 
if  we  were  to  have  reminded  him  of  this  in  his 
beautiful  new  house  with  all  the  latest  luxuries 
and  improvements,  we  can  imagine  the  kindly 
smile  with  which  he  would  have  gazed  round  the 
great,  beautiful  room,  with  its  solid  woods  and 
plate-glass  windows,  and  said  gently :  "  I  know  I 
ought  to  like  the  other,  and  I  do,  but  how  can  I 
help  liking  this,  too  ?  "  Yes,  the  charming  new 
architecture  and  the  lovely  new  houses  were  too 
much  for  them;  they  would  flit  again — though 
with  a  sigh.  Not  out  of  New  England — no,  in 
deed  !  not  away  from  Boston — certainly  not. 
Hardly,  indeed,  out  of  Charles  Street;  for 
although  a  "  very  plain  brown-stone  front  would 
do,"  provided  its  back  windows  looked  upon  the 
river,  the  river  they  must  have. 

Dr.    Holmes   wanted,    not   big  front   windows 


DR.  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.  171 

from  which  to  study  the  Bostonians,  but  a  big  bay- 
window  at  the  back,  from  which  he  could  see  the 
ducks  and  gulls  and  think  how  like  to  human  na 
ture  are  all  their  little  lives  and  loves  and  sorrows. 
So  little  is  there  in  his  work  of  what  is  personal, 
that  it  is  possible  there  are  people — in  England — 
who  really  think  the  "Autocrat"  dwelt  in  the 
boarding-house  of  his  books.  But  those  who  be 
lieve  with  him  that,  as  a  rule,  genius  means  ances 
tors,  are  not  surprised  to  know  that  Dr.  Holmes 
himself  had  many  more  than  the  average  allowance 
of  ancestors,  and  that,  as  a  descendant  of  Dudley, 
Bradstreet,  the  Olivers,  Quincys,  and  Jacksons, 
his  "  hut  of  stone  "  fronted  on  one  of  Boston's  most 
aristocratic  streets,  though  the  dear  river  behind 
it  flows  almost  close  to  its  little  garden  gate. 
Under  his  windows  all  the  morning  trooped  the 
loveliest  children  of  the  city  in  the  daintiest  ap 
parel,  wheeled  in  the  costliest  of  perambulators  by 
the  whitest-capped  of  French  nurses.  Past  his 
door  every  afternoon  the  "  swellest "  turn-outs 
of  the  great  city  passed  on  their  afternoon  parade. 
Near  his  steps,  at  the  hour  for  afternoon  tea,  the 
handsomest  coupes  came  to  anchor  and  deposited 
their  graceful  freight.  But  this  is  not  the  pan 
orama,  that  the  Doctor  himself  was  watching. 
Whether  in  the  beautiful  great  dining-room, 
where  he  was  first  to  acknowledge  the  sway  at 
breakfast,  luncheon  and  dinner,  of  a  still  gentler 


I?2  DR.   OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

Autocrat  than  himself,  or  in  the  library  upstairs, 
which  was  the  heart  of  the  home,  he  was  always  on 
the  river  side  of  the  house.  The  pretty  little 
reception-room  downstairs  on  the  Beacon  Street 
side,  he  would  tell  you  himself,  with  a  merry 
smile,  is  a  good  place  for  your  "  things " ;  you 
yourself  must  come  directly  up  into  the  library, 
and  look  on  the  river,  broad  enough  just  here 
to  seem  a  beautiful  lake.  I  know  of  no  other 
room  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city  where  one 
so  completely  forgot  the  nearness  of  the  world 
as  in  this  library.  Even  if  the  heavy  doors 
stood  open  into  the  hall,  one  forgot  the  front 
of  the  house  and  thought  only  of  the  beauti 
ful  expanse  of  water  that  seemed  to  shut  off  all 
approach  save  from  the  gulls.  News  from  the 
humming  city  must  come  to  you,  it  would  seem, 
only  in  sound  of  marriage  or  funeral  bells  in  the 
steeples  of  the  many  towns,  distinct  but  distant, 
looming  across  the  water.  And  this,  not  because 
the  talk  by  that  cheerful  fire  was  of  the  "Over- 
Soul"  or  the  "Infinite,"  so  unworldly,  so  intro 
spective,  so  wholly  of  things  foreign  or  intellec 
tual.  Nothing  could  be  more  human  than  the 
chat  that  went  on  there,  or  the  laugh  that  rang 
out  so  cheerily  at  such  frequent  intervals.  Even 
with  the  shadow  of  a  deep  personal  grief  over 
the  hearthstone,  a  noble  cheerfulness  that  would 
not  let  others  feel  the  shadow  kept  the  room 


DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  i?3 

bright  though  the  heart  was  heavy.  Are  there  pic 
tures  ?  There  is  certainly  one  picture ;  for  al 
though  a  fine  Copley  hangs  on  one  wall,  and  one 
of  the  beautiful  framed  embroideries  (for  which 
Dr.  Holmes's  daughter-in-law  is  famous)  on  an 
other,  who  will  not  first  be  conscious  that  in 
a  certain  corner  hangs  the  original  portrait  of 
Dorothy  Q.?  Exactly  as  it  is  described  in  the 
poem,  who  can  look  at  it  without  breathing 
gratefully 

"  O  Damsel  Dorothy,  Dorothy  Q., 
Great  is  the  gift  we  owe  to  you," 

and  thinking  almost  with  a  shudder  that  if, 

"  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No," 

there  would  have  been  no  Dr.  Holmes.  Some 
body  there  might  have  been ;  but  though  he  had 
been  only  "  one-tenth  another  to  nine-tenths " 
him,  assuredly  the  loss  of  even  a  tenth  would 
have  been  a  bitter  loss. 

Books  there  are  in  this  library,  of  course;  but 
you  were  as  little  conscious  of  the  books  as  you  were 
of  the  world.  You  were  only  really  conscious  of  the 
presence  in  the  room,  and  the  big  desk  on  which 
was  lying  the  pen  that  wrote  both  "  The  Autocrat  of 
the  Breakfast  Table  "  and  "  The  Professor."  As  you 
took  it  up,  it  was  pretty  to  see  the  look  that  stole 
over  Dr.  Holmes's  face;  it  was  the  twinkle  of  a 


174          DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

smile  that  seemed  to  mean,  "  Yes,  it  was  the  pen 
that  did  it!  /  never  could  have  done  it  in  the 
world !  "  His  success  gave  him  a  deep  and  genuine 
pleasure,  largely  due  to  the  surprise  of  it.  At  forty- 
six  he  believed  he  had  done  all  that  could  be  ex 
pected  of  him,  and  was  content  to  rest  his  repu 
tation — as  well  he  might — on  those  earlier  poems, 
which  will  always  make  a  part  of  even  his  latest 
fame.  But  the  greater  fame  which  followed  was 
— not  greatness  thrust  upon  him,  for  genius  such 
as  his  is  something  more  than  the  patience  which 
is  sometimes  genius, — but  certainly  greatness 
dragged  out  of  him.  The  editors  of  the  proposed 
Atlantic  insisted  that  he  should  write  for  it.  The 
Doctor  did  not  yield,  till,  as  he  himself  tells  it, 
with  another  twinkling  smile,  they  invited  him 
to  a  "  convincing  dinner  at  Porter's."  Feeling 
very  good-natured  immediately  after,  he  promised 
to  "  try,"  and  a  little  later  sent  off  a  few  sheets 
which  he  somewhat  dubiously  hoped  would  "do." 
The  storm  of  greeting  and  applause  that  followed 
even  these  first  sheets  filled  him  with  amazement, 
but  with  genuine  delight.  It  was  beautiful  to  see 
how  deeply  it  touched  him  to  know  that  thousands 
of  readers  think  "  The  Autocrat "  the  most  charm 
ing  book  they  own.  For  this  was  not  the  arrogant 
satisfaction  of  the  "master"  who  anounnces : 
"  Listen !  I  have  composed  the  most  wonderful 
sonata  that  the  world  has  ever  heard !  "  Still  less 


DR.   OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.  i?5 

was  it  the  senseless  arrogance  of  a  foolish  violin 
that  might  say :  "  Listen !  you  shall  hear  from  me 
the  most  superb  music  you  can  imagine  !  "  Rather 
was  it  the  low-voiced,  wondering  content  of  an 
aeolian  harp,  that  lying  quietly  upon  the  window- 
sill,  with  no  thought  that  it  is  there  for  anything 
but  to  enjoy  itself,  suddenly  finds  wonderful  har 
monies  stealing  through  its  heart  and  out  into  the 
world,  and  sees  a  group  of  gladdened  listeners  gath 
ering  about  it.  "  How  wonderful !  how  wonderful 
that  /  have  been  chosen  to  give  this  music  to  the 
world !  Am  I  not  greatly  to  be  envied  ?  "  As  the 
harp  thus  breathes  its  gratitude  to  the  breeze  that 
stirs  it,  so  Dr.  Holmes  looked  his  gratitude  to  the 
pen  that  "  helped  "  him ;  with  something  of  the 
same  wonder  at  personal  success  that  made  Thack 
eray  exclaim  :  "  Down  on  your  knees,  my  boy ! 
That  is  the  house  where  I  wrote  '  Vanity  Fair ' !  " 
Do  we  not  all  love  Thackeray  and  Holmes  the  bet 
ter  for  caring  so  much  about  our  caring  for  them? 
But  it  is  growing  late  and  dark.  Across  the 
river — one  almost  says  across  the  bay — the  lights 
are  twinkling,  and  we  must  go.  As  the  cool  breeze 
touches  our  faces,  how  strange  it  seems  to  see  the 
paved  and  lighted  street,  the  crowding  houses,  the 
throng  of  carriages,  and  to  realize  that  the  great, 
throbbing,  fashionable  world  has  been  so  near 
to  us  all  the  afternoon  while  we  have  been  so  far 
from  it ! 


I7<5  DR.   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Now,  as  we  go  down  the  steps,  a  sudden  con 
sciousness  strikes  us  of  what  very  pleasant  places 
Boston  literary  lines  seem  to  fall  into !  Is  it  that 
literary  people  are  more  fortunate  in  Boston,  or 
that  in  Boston  only  the  fortunate  people  are  liter 
ary  ?  For  as  we  think  of  brilliant  names  associ 
ated  with  Beacon  Street,  Boylston  Street,  Com 
monwealth  Avenue,  Newbury  and  Marlborough 
Streets,  it  certainly  seems  as  if  the  Bohemia  of 
plain  living  and  high  thinking — so  prominent  a 
feature  of  New  York  literary  and  artistic  life — had 
hardly  a  foothold  in  aristocratic,  literary  Boston. 

Finally,  if  it  seems  wonderful  that  living  almost 
exclusively  in  one  locality,  Dr.  Holmes  should 
have  succeeded  as  few  have  succeeded  in  dealing 
with  the  mysteries  of  universal  human  nature, 
still  more  wonderful  is  it,  perhaps,  that  dealing 
very  largely  with  the  foibles  and  follies  of  human 
nature,  nothing  that  he  ever  wrote  has  given 
offence.  True,  this  is  partly  owing  to  his  in 
tense  unwillingness  to  hurt  the  feelings  of  any 
human  being.  No  fame  for  saying  brilliant  things 
that  came  to  this  gentlest  of  autocrats  and  most 
genial  of  gentlemen,  tinged  with  a  possibility  that 
any  one  had  winced  under  his  pen,  seemed  to 
him  of  any  value,  or  gave  him  any  pleasure.  But, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  no  bore  has  ever  read  any 
thing  Dr.  Holmes  has  written  about  bores  with 
the  painful  consciousness,  "  Alas !  I  was  that 


DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES.  177 

bore  !  "  We  may  take  to  ourselves  a  good  deal 
that  he  says,  but  never  with  a  sense  of  shame  or 
humiliation.  On  the  contrary,  we  laugh  the  most 
sincerely  of  any  one,  and  say  "  Of  course !  that 
is  exactly  it !  Why,  I  have  done  that  thing  my 
self  a  thousand  times ! "  And  so  the  genial, 
keen-eyed  master  of  human  nature  writes  with 
impunity  how  difficult  he  finds  it  to  love  his 
neighbor  properly  till  he  gets  away  from  him,  and 
tells  us  how  he  hates  to  have  his  best  friend  hunt 
him  up  in  the  cars  and  sit  down  beside  him,  and 
explains  that,  although  a  radical,  he  finds  he 
enjoys  the  society  of  those  who  believe  more 
than  he  does  better  than  that  of  those  who 
believe  less  ;  and  neighbor  and  best  friend,  radical 
and  conservative,  laugh  alike  and  alike  enjoy  the 
joke,  each  only  remembering  how  he  finds  it  hard 
to  love  his  neighbor,  and  how  he  hates  to  talk  in  the 
cars.  The  restless  "  interviewer,"  who  may  per 
haps  have  gained  entrance  to  the  pleasant  library, 
never  found  himself  treated,  after  he  left,  with  any 
less  courtesy  than  that  which  allowed  him  to  be 
happy  while  he  was  "  interviewing,"  to  the  misery 
of  his  hapless  victim.  The  pen  that  "  never  dared 
to  be  as  funny  as  it  could  be,"  never  permitted  itself 
to  be  as  witty  as  it  might  have  been,  at  the  expense 
of  any  suffering  to  others.  The  gentle  Doctor, 
when  the  interviewer  was  gone,  turned  again  to  his 
ducks  in  the  beautiful  aviary  outside  his  window, 


178  DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES. 

and  only  vented  his  long-suffering  in  some  general 
remark  thrown  carelessly  in,  as  he  describes  how 
the  bird 

Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down  the  stream  ; 
Stares  undismayed  upon  the  harmless  stranger ; — 
Ah  !  were  all  strangers  harmless  as  they  seem  ! 

And  the  very  latest  stranger  who  may  have  inflict 
ed  the  blow  that  drew  out  that  gentlest  of  remon 
strances,  would  be  the  first  to  laugh  and  to  enjoy 
the  remonstrance  as  a  joke! 

And  so  came  to  the  Autocrat  what  he  prized  as 
the  very  best  of  all  his  fame — the  consciousness 
that  he  never  made  a  "  hit  "  that  could  wound.  So 
truly  was  this  his  temperament,  that  if  you  praised 
some  of  the  fine  lines  of  his  noble  poem  on  "  My 
Aviary,"  he  would  say  gently:  "But  don't  you 
think  the  best  line  is  where  I  spare  the  feelings  of 
the  duck?  "  and  you  remember, — 

Look  quick  !  there's  one  just  diving  ! 

And  while  he's  under — just  about  a  minute — 

I  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  say 

His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it, 

The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to  pay. 

And  not  even  "  while  they  are  under  "  would  Dr. 
Holmes  ridicule  his  fellow-men.  It  is  never  we 
whom  he  was  laughing  at :  it  is  simply  human  na 
ture  on  its  funny  side ;  and  it  is  a  curious  fact  that 
none  of  us  resent  being  considered  to  have  the  foi- 


DR.  OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES.  179 

bles  of  human  nature  provided  they  are  not  made 
to  appear  personal  foibles.  So,  while  remember 
ing  the  intensity  of  the  pleasure  he  has  given  us, 
let  us  remember,  what  he  would  care  far  more  to 
hear,  that  he  has  never  given  any  of  us  anything 
but  pleasure. 

ALICE  WELLINGTON  ROLLINS. 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE 


181 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

AT     "OAK     GLEN,"     NEWPORT 

To  those  persons  who  have  only  visited  the 
town  of  Newport,  taken  its  ocean  drive,  lunched 
at  its  Casino,  strolled  on  its  beach,  and  stared  at 
its  fine  carriages  and  the  fine  people  in  them,  that 
fill  Bellevue  Avenue  of  an  afternoon,  the  idea  of 
choosing  Newport  as  a  place  to  rest  in  must  seem 
a  very  singular  one.  If  their  visit  be  a  brief  one, 
they  may  easily  fail  to  discover  that  after  leaving 
the  limits  of  the  gay  summer  city,  with  its  bril 
liant  social  life,  its  polo  matches,  its  races,  balls, 
dinners,  and  fetes,  there  still  remains  a  district, 
some  twelve  miles  in  length,  of  the  most  rural 
character.  The  land  here  is  principally  owned 
by  small  farmers,  who  raise,  and  sell  at  exorbitant 
and  unrural  prices,  the  fruit,  vegetables,  eggs, 
milk,  butter  and  cream  which  the  Newport  market- 
men,  adding  a  liberal  percentage,  sell  again  to 
their  summer  customers.  The  interior  of  the 
island  is  in  many  respects  the  most  agreeable 
part  of  it ;  the  climate  is  better,  being  much 
freer  from  heavy  fogs  and  sea  mists,  and  the  ther 
mometer  neither  rises  so  high  nor  falls  so  low  as 

183 


184  JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

in  the  town.  The  neighborhood  of  Lawton's 
Valley  is  one  of  the  most  charming  and  healthy 
parts ;  and  it  is  in  this  spot  that  Mrs.  Howe  has, 
for  many  years,  made  her  summer  home.  The 
house  stands  a  little  removed  from  the  cross-road 
which  connects  the  East  and  West  Roads,  the 
two  thoroughfares  that  traverse  the  island  from 
Newport  to  Bristol  Ferry.  Behind  the  house 
there  is  a  grove  of  trees — oaks,  willows,  maples, 
and  pines — which  is  the  haunt  of  many  singing 
birds.  The  quiet  house  seems  to  be  the  centre 
of  a  circle  of  song,  and  the  earliest  hint  of  day  is 
announced  by  their  morning  chorus.  In  this  glen 
"  The  Mistress  of  the  Valley,"  as  Mrs.  Howe  has 
styled  herself,  in  one  of  her  poems,  spends  many 
of  her  leisure  hours,  during  the  six  months  which 
she  usually  passes  at  her  summer  home.  Here 
she  sits  with  her  books  and  needle-work,  and  of 
an  afternoon  there  is  reading  aloud,  and  much 
pleasant  talk  under  the  trees  ;  sometimes  a  visitor 
comes  from  town,  over  the  five  long  miles  of 
country  road ;  but  this  is  not  so  common  an 
occurrence  as  to  take  away  from  the  excitement 
created  by  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell.  There 
are  lotus  trees  at  Oak  Glen,  but  its  mistress  can 
not  be  said  to  eat  thereof,  for  she  is  never  idle, 
and  what  she  calls  rest  would  be  thought  by 
many  people  to  be  very  hard  work.  She  rests 
herself,  after  the  work  of  the  day,  by  reading  her 


JULIA     WARD  HOWE.  185 

Greek  books,  which  have  given  her  the  greatest 
intellectual  enjoyment  of  the  later  years  of  her 
life.  In  the  summer  of  1886  she  studied  Plato  in 
the  original,  and  last  year  she  read  the  plays  of 
Sophocles. 

The  day's  routine  is  something  in  this  order: 
Breakfast,  in  the  American  fashion,  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  then  a  stroll  about  the  place,  after 
which  the  household  duties  are  attended  to ;  and 
then  a  long  morning  of  work.  Letter-writing, 
which — with  the  family  correspondence,  business 
matters,  the  autograph  fiends  and  the  letter 
cranks — is  a  heavy  burthen,  is  attended  to  first ; 
and  then  whatever  literary  work  is  on  the  anvil 
is  labored  at  steadily  and  uninterruptedly  until 
one  o'clock,  when  the  great  event  of  the  day 
occurs.  This  is  the  arrival  of  the  mail,  which  is 
brought  from  town  by  Jackson  Carter,  a  neighbor, 
who  combines  the  functions  of  local  mail-carrier, 
milkman,  expressman,  vender  of  early  vegetables, 
and  purveyor  of  gossip  generally ;  to  which  he 
adds  the  duty  of  touting  for  an  African  Metho 
dist  church.  Jackson  is  of  the  African  race,  and 
though  he  signs  his  name  with  a  cross,  he  is  a 
shrewd,  intelligent  fellow,  and  is  quite  a  model  of 
industry.  After  the  newspapers  and  the  letters 
have  been  digested,  comes  the  early  dinner,  fol 
lowed  by  coffee  served  in  the  green  parlor,  which 
is  quite  the  most  important  apartment  of  the  es- 


1 86  JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

tablishment.  It  is  an  open-air  parlor,  in  the  shape 
of  a  semicircle,  set  about  with  a  close,  tall  green 
hedge,  and  shaded  by  the  spreading  boughs  of  an 
ancient  mulberry  tree.  Its  inmates  are  completely 
shielded  from  the  sight  of  any  chance  passers-by ; 
and  in  its  quiet  shade  they  often  overhear  the 
comments  of  the  strangers  on  the  road  outside, 
to  whom  the  house  is  pointed  out.  It  was  in  this 
small  paradise  that  "  Mr.  Isaacs  "  was  written,  and 
read  aloud  to  Mrs.  Howe,  chapter  by  chapter,  as 
it  was  written  by  her  nephew,  Marion  Crawford. 
Sometimes  there  is  reading  aloud  from  the  news 
papers  and  reviews  here,  and  then  the  busiest 
woman  in  all  Newport  goes  back  to  her  sanctum 
for  two  more  working  hours ;  after  which  she 
either  drives  or  walks  till  sunset. 

If  it  is  a  drive,  it  will  be,  most  likely,  an  expe 
dition  to  the  town,  where  some  household  neces 
sity  must  be  bought,  or  some  visit  is  to  be  paid. 
If  a  stroll  is  the  order  of  the  day,  it  will  be  either 
across  the  fields  to  a  hill-top  near  by,  from  which 
a  wonderful  view  of  the  island  and  the  bay  is 
to  be  had,  or  along  the  country  road,  past  the 
schoolhouse,  and  towards  Mrs.  Howe's  old  home, 
Lawton's  Valley.  In  these  sunset  rambles,  Mrs. 
Howe  is  very  sure  to  be  accompanied  by  one  or 
more  of  her  grandchildren,  four  of  whom,  with 
their  mother,  Mrs.  Hall,  pass  the  summers  at  Oak 
Glen.  She  finds  the  children  excellent  company, 


JULIA    WARD   HOWE.  187 

and  they  look  forward  to  the  romp  which  follows 
the  twilight  stroll  as  the  greatest  delight  of  the 
day.  The  romp  takes  place  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  the  rugs  are  rolled  up,  and  the  furniture 
moved  back  against  the  wall,  leaving  the  wooden 
floor  bare  for  the  dancing  and  prancing  of  the 
little  feet.  Mrs.  Howe  takes  her  place  at  the 
piano,  strikes  the  chords  of  an  exhilarating  Irish 
jig,  and  the  little  company,  sometimes  enlarged 
by  a  contingent  of  the  Richards  cousins  from 
Maine,  dance  and  jig  about  with  all  the  grace  and 
abandon  of  childhood.  After  supper,  when  the 
children  are  at  last  quiet  and  tucked  up  in  their 
little  beds,  there  is  more  music — either  with  the 
piano,  in  the  drawing-room,  or,  if  it  is  a  warm  night, 
on  the  piazza,  with  the  guitar.  As  the  evenings 
grow  longer,  in  the  late  summer  and  autumn,  there 
is  much  reading  aloud,  but  only  from  novels  of  the 
most  amusing,  sensational  or  romantic  descrip 
tion.  None  others  are  admitted  ;  after  the  long 
day  of  work  and  study,  relaxation  and  diversion 
are  the  two  things  needed.  I  have  observed  that 
with  most  hard  literary  workers  and  speculative 
thinkers,  this  class  of  novel  is  most  in  demand. 
The  more  intellectual  romances  are  greedily  de 
voured  by  people  whose  customary  occupations 
lead  them  into  the  realm  of  actualities,  and  whose 
working  hours  are  devoted  to  some  practical 
business. 


1 88  JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

Last  year  Mrs.  Howe  had  at  heart  the  revival 
of  the  Town  and  Country  Club,  of  which  she  is 
the  originator  and  President,  and  which  in  1886 
had  omitted  its  meetings.  These  meetings,  which 
take  place  fortnightly  during  the  season,  are  held 
at  the  houses  of  different  members,  and  are  both 
social  and  intellectual  in  character.  The  sub 
stantial  part  of  the  feast  is  served  first,  in  the 
form  of  a  lecture  or  paper  from  some  distinguished 
person,  after  which  there  are  refreshments,  and 
talk  of  an  informal  character.  Among  others  who 
in  past  seasons  have  read  before  the  Club  are 
Bret  Harte,  Prof.  Agassiz,  the  Rev.  Edward 
Everett  Hale,  the  late  W.m.  B.  Rogers,  Mark 
Twain,  Charles  Godfrey  Leland  ("  Hans  Breit- 
mann  "),  and  the  Rev.  Drs.  James  Freeman  Clarke, 
Frederic  H.  Hedge  and  George  Ellis. 

Mrs.  Howe's  work  for  the  summer  of  1887  in 
cluded  a  paper  on  a  subject  connected  with  the 
Greek  drama,  to  be  read  at  the  Concord  School 
of  Philosophy,  and  an  essay  for  the  Woman's 
Congress  which  was  held  in  the  early  fall.  She 
is  much  interested  in  the  arts  and  industries  of 
women,  and  in  connection  with  these  maintains  a 
wide  correspondence.  But  it  is  not  all  work  and 
no  play,  even  at  such  a  busy  place  as  Oak  Glen. 
There  are  whole  days  of  delightful  leisure.  Some 
times  these  are  spent  on  the  water  on  board  of 
some  friend's  yacht ;  or  a  less  pretentious  catboat 


JULIA    WARD    HOWE.  jgp 

is  chartered,  which  conveys  Mrs.  Howe  and  her 
guests  to  Conanicut,  or  to  Jamestown,  where  the 
day  is  spent  beside  the  waves.  Last  summer  a 
beautiful  schooner  yacht  was  lent  to  Mrs.  Howe 
for  ten  days,  and  a  glorious  cruise  was  made, 
under  the  most  smiling  of  summer  skies.  A  day 
on  the  water  is  the  thing  that  is  most  highly  en 
joyed  by  the  denizens  of  Oak  Glen ;  but  there 
are  other  days  hardly  less  delightful,  spent  in 
some  out-of-the-way  rural  spot,  where  picnics  are 
not  forbidden,  though  these,  alas  !  are  becoming 
rare,  since  the  churlish  notice  was  posted  up  at 
Glen  Anna,  forbidding  all  trespassing  on  these 
grounds,  which,  time  out  of  mind,  have  been 
free  to  all  who  loved  them.  There  are  still 
the  Paradise  Rocks,  near  the  house  of  Edwin 
Booth,  and  thither  an  expedition  is  occasionally 
made. 

Country  life  is  not  without  its  drawbacks  and 
troubles ;  but  these  are  not  so  very  heavy  after 
all,  compared  with  some  of  the  tribulations  of 
the  city,  or  of  those  who  place  themselves  at  the 
mercy  of  summer  hotel  keepers  and  boarding- 
house  ladies.  The  old  white  pony,  Mingo,  will 
get  into  the  vegetable  garden  occasionally,  and 
eat  off  the  heads  of  the  asparagus,  and  trample 
down  the  young  corn ;  the  neighbor's  pig  some 
times  gets  through  the  weak  place  in  the  wall, 
with  all  her  pinky  progeny  behind  her,  and  takes 


190  JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

possession  of  the  very  best  flower-bed ;  the 
honeysuckle  vine  does  need  training ;  and  the 
grapes  will  not  ripen  as  well  as  they  would  have 
done,  if  the  new  trellis  projected  recently  had 
been  set  up.  But  after  all,  taking  into  considera 
tion  the  fact  that  lo,  the  Jersey  cow,  is  giving  ten 
quarts  of  rich  milk  a  day,  and  that  the  new  cook 
has  mastered  the  simplest  and  most  delightful 
of  dishes  —  Newport  corn-meal  flap-jacks, — Mrs. 
Howe's  life  at  Oak  Glen  is  as  peaceful  and  happy 
an  existence  as  one  is  apt  to  find  in  these  nihil 
istic  days  of  striking  hotel  waiters  and  crowded 
summer  resorts. 

Beautiful  as  Newport  is  in  these  soft  days  of 
early  summer,  it  is  even  lovelier  in  the  autumn, 
and  every  year  it  is  harder  to  leave  Oak  Glen,  to 
give  up  the  wide  arc  of  the  heavens,  and  to  look 
up  into  God's  sky,  between  the  two  lines  of  brick 
houses  of  a  city  street.  Each  winter  the  place  at 
Newport  is  kept  open  a  little  longer,  and  it  is 
only  the  closing  days  of  November  that  find  Mrs. 
Howe  established  in  her  house  in  Boston.  Beacon 
Street,  with  its  smooth  macadamized  roadway, 
whereon  there  is  much  pleasure  driving,  and  in 
the  winter  a  perfect  sleighing  carnival,  is  as 
pleasant  a  street  as  it  is  possible  to  live  on,  but  a 
country  road  is  always  a  better  situation  than  a 
city  street,  and  a  forest  path  perhaps  is  best  of 
all.  When  she  is  once  settled  in  her  Boston 


JULIA    WARD    HOWE.  *9J 

home,  the  manifold  interests  of  the  complex 
city  life  claim  every  hour  in  the  day.  Her  re 
markable  powers  of  endurance,  her  splendid  en 
joyment  of  life  and  health  make  her  winters  as 
full  of  pleasure  as  the  more  peaceful  summer- 
tide.  It  is  a  very  different  life  from  that  led  at 
Oak  Glen ;  it  has  an  endless  variety  of  interests, 
social,  private,  public,  charitable,  philanthropic, 
musical,  artistic,  and  intellectual.  A  half-dozen 
clubs  and  associations  of  women  in  the  city  and 
its  near  vicinity,  which  owe  their  existence  in 
large  part  to  Mrs.  Howe's  efforts,  claim  her  pres 
ence  in  their  midst  at  least  once  in  every  year. 

Among  the  public  occasions  which  have  held 
the  greatest  interest  for  Mrs.  Howe  of  late  years 
was  the  dedication  of  the  new  Kindergarten  for 
the  Blind  in  1887,  at  which  she  read  one  of  her 
happiest  "  occasional  poems."  The  authors'  read 
ing  in  aid  of  the  Longfellow  memorial  fund,  at 
the  Boston  Museum,  where,  before  an  audience 
the  like  of  which  had  never  before  been  seen  in 
the  theatre,  she  read  a  poem  in  memory  of  Long 
fellow,  was  an  occasion  which  will  not  soon  be 
forgotten  by  those  who  were  present.  Mrs. 
Howe  was  the  only  woman  who  took  part  in  the 
proceedings,  the  other  authors  who  read  from 
their  own  works  being  Dr.  Holmes,  Mr.  Lowell, 
Mark  Twain,  Colonel  Higginson,  Prof.  Norton, 
Mr.  E.  E.  Hale,  Mr.  Aldrich  and  Mr.  Howells. 


I92  JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

Mrs.  Howe  has  spoken  several  times  at  the  Nine 
teenth  Century  Club,  and  she  is  always  glad  to 
revisit  New  York,  for  though  she  is  often  thought 
to  be  a  Bostonian,  she  never  forgets  that  the  first 
twenty  years  of  her  life  were  passed  in  New 
York,  the  city  of  her  birth. 

MAUD  HOWE. 


MR.   HOWELLS 


193 


MR.  HOWELLS 

IN    BEACON    STREET,    BOSTON 

If  any  one  wants  to  live  in  a  city  street,  I  do 
not  see  how  he  can  well  find  a  pleasanter  one 
than  Beacon  Street,  Boston.  Its  older  houses 
come  down  Beacon  Hill,  past  the  Common  and 
the  Public  Garden,  in  single  file,  like  quaint  Con 
tinentals  on  parade,  who,  being  few,  have  to 
make  the  most  of  themselves.  Then  it  forms  in 
double  file  again  and  goes  on  a  long  way,  out 
toward  the  distant  Brookline  hills,  which  close  in 
the  view.  Howells's  number  is  302.  In  this 
Back  Bay  district  of  made  ground,  the  favored 
West  End  of  the  newer  city,  you  cannot  help 
wondering  how  it  is  that  all  about  you  is  in  so 
much  better  taste  than  in  New  York — so  much 
handsomer,  neater,  more  homelike  and  engaging 
than  our  shabby  Fifth  Avenue.  Beacon  Street 
is  stately ;  so  is  Marlborough  Street,  that  runs 
next  parallel  to  it ;  and  even  more  so  is  Com 
monwealth  Avenue — with  its  lines  of  trees  down 
the  centre,  like  a  Paris  boulevard, — next  beyond 
it.  The  eye  traverses  long  fretworks  of  good 

195 


196  MR.  HO  WELLS. 

architectural  design,  and  there  is  no  feature  to 
jar  upon  the  quiet  elegance  and  respectability. 
The  houses  seem  like  those  of  people  in  some 
such  prosperous  foreign  towns  as  the  newer 
Liverpool,  Diisseldorf  or  Louvain.  The  comfort 
able  horizontal  line  prevails.  There  are  green 
front  doors,  and  red  brick,  and  brass  knockers. 
A  common  pattern  of  approach  is  to  have  a  step 
or  two  outside,  and  a  few  more  within  the  vesti 
bule.  That  abomination,  the  ladder-like  "  high 
stoop  "  of  New  York,  seems  unknown. 

These  are  the  scenes  amid  which  Mr.  Howells 
takes  his  walks  abroad.  From  his  front  windows 
he  may  see  the  upper-class  types  about  which  he 
has  written — the  Boston  girl,  "  with  something 
of  the  nice  young  fellow  about  her,"  the  Chance 
Acquaintance,  with  his  eye-glass,  the  thin,  elder 
ly,  patrician  Coreys,  the  blooming,  philanthropic 
Miss  Kingsbury.  The  fictitious  Silas  Lapham 
built  in  this  same  quarter  the  mansion  with 
which  he  was  to  consolidate  his  social  aspirations. 
Perhaps  some  may  have  thought  it  identical  with 
that  of  Howells,  so  close  are  the  sites,  and  so 
feelingly  does  the  author  speak — as  if  from  per 
sonal  experience — of  dealings  with  an  architect, 
and  the  like.  But  Howells's  abode  does  not 
savor  of  the  architect,  nor  of  the  mansion.  It  is 
a  builder's  house,  though  even  the  builder,  in 
Boston,  does  not  rid  himself  of  the  general  tradi- 


MR.  HO  WELLS.  197 

tion  of  comfort  and  solidity.  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  lived  in  a  house  but  little  different,  two 
doors  above.  That  of  Howells  is  plain  and  wide, 
of  red  brick,  three  stories  and  mansard  roof,  with 
a  long  iron  balcony  under  the  parlor  windows. 
Its  chief  adornment  is  a  vine  of  Japanese  ivy, 
which  climbs  half  the  entire  height  of  the  facade. 
The  singular  thing  about  this  vine  is,  that  it  is  not 
planted  in  his  own  ground,  but  a  section  in  that 
of  his  neighbor  on  each  side.  It  charmingly 
drapes  his  wall,  while  growing  but  thinly  on 
theirs,  and  forms  a  clear  case  of  "  natural  selec 
tion  "  which  might  properly  almost  render  its 
owners  discontented  enough  to  cut  it  down. 
The  leaves,  as  I  saw  them,  touched  by  the 
autumn,  glowed  with  crimson  like  sumac.  The 
house  is  approached  by  steps  of  easy  grade. 
There  is  a  little  reception-room  at  the  left  of  the 
hall,  and  the  dining-room  is  on  the  same  floor. 
You  mount  a  flight  of  stairs,  and  come  to  the 
library  and  study,  at  the  back,  and  the  parlor 
in  front. 

Vlan  !  as  the  French  have  it — what  a  flood  of 
light  in  this  study !  The  shades  of  the  three 
wide  windows  are  drawn  up  to  the  very  top  ;  it 
is  like  being  at  the  seaside  ;  there  are  no  owlish 
habits  about  a  writer  who  can  stand  this.  It  is, 
in  fact,  the  seaside,  so  why  should  it  not  seem  like 
it?  The  bold  waters  of  the  Back  Bay,  a  wide 


198 


MR.  HO  WELLS. 


basin  of  the  Charles  River,  dash  up  to  the  very 
verge  of  the  small  dooryard,  in  which  the  clothes 
hang  out  to  dry.  It  looks  as  if  they  might  some 
day  take  a  notion  to  come  in  and  call  on  the  cook 
in  the  kitchen,  or  even  lift  up  the  whole  establish 
ment  bodily,  and  land  it  on  some  new  Ararat. 
This  stretch  of  water  is  thought  to  resemble  the 
canal  of  the  Guidecca,  at  Venice  ;  Henry  James, 
with  others,  has  certified  to  the  view  as  Venetian. 
You  take  the  Cambridge  gas-works  for  Palladio's 
domes,  and  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  which  is 
really  more  like  a  shot-tower,  for  a  campanile ; 
and  then,  at  sunset,  when  the  distant  buildings  are 
black  upon  the  glowing,  ruddy  sky,  the  analogy 
is  not  so  very  remote.  All  the  buildings  on  this 
new-made  land  are  set  upon  piles,  and  the  tides, 
in  a  measure,  flow  under  them  twice  a  day.  It 
was  a  serious  question  at  the  beginning,  whether 
there  should  not  be  canals  here  instead  of  streets  ; 
but,  considering  that  the  canals  would  be  frozen 
up  a  large  part  of  the  year,  the  verdict  was 
against  them.  I  am  rather  sorry  for  this :  it 
would  have  been  interesting  to  see  what  kind  of 
gondoliers  the  Boston  hackmen  and  car-drivers 
would  have  made.  Would  they  have  worn  uni 
forms  ?  Would  they  have  sung,  to  avoid  colli 
sions,  in  rounding  the  corners  of  Exeter  and  Fair- 
field  streets?  Ah  me!  for  those  plaintive  ballads 
that  might  have  been  ?  It  would  have  been  inter- 


MR.  HO  WELLS.  199 

esting  to  see  the  congregation  of  Phillips  Brooks's 
church — the  much-vaunted  Trinity — going  to 
service  by  water,  and  the  visitors  to  the  Art 
Museum,  and  the  students  to  the  Institute  of 
Technology.  All  these  are  but  a  stone's-throw 
from  Howells.  Howells  may  congratulate  him 
self  on  a  greater  solidity  for  his  share  of  the 
land  than  most,  for  fifty  years  ago,  when  there 
were  tide-mills  in  this  neighborhood,  it  was  the 
site  of  a  toll-house.  Terra  firma,  all  about  him, 
has  an  antiquity  of  but  from  twelve  to  twenty 
years.  His  house  is  perhaps  a  dozen  years  old, 
and  he  has  owned  it  but  four. 

Ste.  Beuve,  the  most  felicitous  of  critics,  wishes 
to  know  a  man  in  order  to  understand  his  work. 
I  hardly  think  the  demand  a  fair  one  ;  there 
ought  to  be  enough  in  every  piece  of  good  work 
to  stand  for  itself,  and  its  maker  ought  to  have 
the  right  to  be  judged  at  the  level  that  the  work 
represents,  rather  than  in  his  personal  situation, 
which  may  often  be  even  mean  or  ridiculous. 
Nevertheless,  if  it  be  desired,  I  know  of  no  one 
more  capable  of  standing  the  test  than  William 
Dean  Howells.  Perhaps  I  incline  to  a  certain 
friendly  bias — though  possibly  even  a  little  ex 
treme  in  this  may  be  pardoned,  for  surely  no  one  is 
more  unreasonably  carped  at  than  he  nowadays, — 
but  he  impresses  me  as  corresponding  to  the  ideal 
of  what  greatness  ought  to  be  ;  how  it  ought  to 


200  MR.  HO  WELLS. 

look  and  act.  He  not  only  is,  but  appears,  really 
great.  In  the  personal  conduct  of  his  life,  too, 
he  confirms  what  is  best  in  his  books.  Thus, 
there  are  no  obscurities  to  be  cleared  up  ;  no 
stories  to  be  heard  of  egotism,  selfishness  or  greed 
towards  his  contemporaries ;  there  is  nothing  to 
be  passed  over  in  discreet  silence.  He  has  an 
open  and  generous  nature,  the  most  polished  yet 
unassuming  manners,  and  an  impressive  presence, 
which  is  deprived  of  anything  formidable  by  a 
rare  geniality.  In  looks,  he  is  about  the  middle 
height,  rather  square  built,  with  a  fine,  Napoleonic 
head,  which  seems  capable  of  containing  any 
thing.  I  have  seen  none  of  his  many  portraits 
that  does  him  justice.  Few  men  with  his  oppor 
tunities  have  done  so  much,  or  been  so  quick  to 
recognize  original  merit  and  struggling  aspira 
tion.  There  is  no  trace  in  him  of  uneasiness  at 
the  success  of  others,  of  envy  towards  rivals — 
though,  indeed,  it  would  t>e  hard  to  say,  from  the 
very  beginning  of  his  career,  where  any  rivals  in 
his  own  peculiar  vein  were  to  be  found.  Such  a 
largeness  of  conduct  is  surely  one  of  the  indica 
tions  of  genius,  a  part  of  the  serene  calm  which 
is  content  to  wait  for  its  own  triumph  and  for 
bear  push  or  artifice  to  hasten  it. 

To  write  of  Howells  "  at  home  "seems  to  write 
particularly  of  Howells.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
the  homely  and  the  home-keeping  feeling  in  his 


MR.  HO  WELLS.  201 

books,  which  has  had  to  do  with  making  him  the 
chosen  novelist  of  the  intelligent  masses.  To 
one  who  knows  this  and  his  personal  habits,  it 
would  not  seem  most  proper  to  look  for  him  in 
courts  or  camps,  in  lively  clubs,  at  dinners,  on  the 
rostrum,  or  in  any  of  the  noisier  assemblages  of 
men.  (Even  in  his  journeyings,  in  those  charm 
ing  books,  "Venetian  Life"  and  "  Florentine  Mo 
saics,"  he  is  a  saunterer  and  gentle  satirist,  with 
out  the  fire  and  zeal  of  the  genuine  traveler.)  All 
these  he  enjoys,  no  one  more  so,  at  the  proper 
time  and  occasion,  but  one  would  seek  him  most 
naturally  in  the  quiet  of  his  domestic  circle.  And 
even  there  the  most  fitting  place  seems  yonder 
desk,  where  the  work  awaits  him  over  which  but 
now  his  thoughtful  brow  was  bending.  He  is  a 
novelist  for  the  genuine  love  of  it,  and  not  in 
the  way  of  arrogance  or  parade,  nor  even  for  its 
rewards,  substantial  for  him  though  they  are. 
One  would  say  that  the  greatest  of  his  pleasures 
was  to  follow,  through  all  their  ramifications,  the 
problems  of  life  and  character  he  sets  himself  to 
study.  In  a  talk  I  had  with  him  some  time  ago, 
he  said,  incidentally :  "  Supposing  there  were  a 
fire  in  the  street,  the  people  in  the  houses  would 
run  out  in  terror  or  amazement.  All  finer  shades 
of  character  would  be  lost ;  they  would  be  merged, 
for  the  nonce,  in  the  common  animal  impulse. 
No;  to  truly  study  character,  you  must  study 


202  MR.  HO  WELLS. 

men  in  the  lesser  and  more  ordinary  circum 
stances  of  their  lives  ;  then  it  is  displayed  un- 
trammeled." 

This  may  almost  serve  as  a  brief  statement  of 
his  theory  in  literature,  which  has  been  the  cause, 
of  late,  of  such  heated  discussion  in  two  hemi 
spheres.  And  if  a  man  is  to  be  judged  by  the 
circumstances  of  his  daily  life,  surely  it  is  no  more 
than  fair  to  apply  the  method  to  its  advocate 
himself.  There  is  nothing  cobwebby,  no  dust  of 
antiquity,  nor  medievalism,  in  this  study  and 
library ;  it  is  almost  as  modern  in  effect  as  Silas 
Lapham's  famous  warehouse  of  mineral  paints. 
Howells  has  "  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  "; 
he  is  intensely  concerned  with  the  present  and 
the  future.  The  strong  light  from  the  windows 
shows  in  the  cases  only  a  random  series  of  books 
in  ephemeral-looking  bindings.  There  are  Bae- 
decker's  guides,  dictionaries,  pamphlets,  and  cur 
rent  fiction.  The  only  semblance  of  a  "  collec 
tion"  in  which  he  indulges  is  some  literature  of  for 
eign  languages,  which  he  uses  as  his  tools.  He  has 
done  lately  the  great  service  of  introducing  to 
us  many  of  the  masterpieces  of  modern  Italian 
and  Spanish  fiction,  in  his  Editor's  Study  in  Har 
per  s  Magazine  also.  He  was  long  preparing,  and 
has  lately  published,  a  series  of  papers  on  the  mod 
ern  Italian  poets.  He  cares  nothing  for  bindings, 
or  the  rarities  of  the  bibliopole's  art.  The  only 


MR.  HO  WELLS. 


203 


feeling  he  is  heard  to  express  toward  books,  as  such, 
is  that  he  does  not  like  to  see  even  the  humblest 
of  them  abused.  In  his  house  you  find  no  no 
ticeable  blue  china  or  Chippendale,  no  trace  of 
the  bric-a-brac  enthusiasm,  of  which  we  had  occa 
sion  to  speak  at  the  home  of  Aldrich.  In  his 
parlor  are  tables  and  chairs,  perfectly  proper  and 
comfortable,  but  worthy  of  no  attention  in  them 
selves.  On  the  walls  are  some  few  old  paintings 
from  Florence,  a  pleasing  photograph  or  two, 
an  original  water-color  by  Fortuny,  which  has  a 
little  history,  and  an  engraving  after  Alma 
Tadema,  presented  by  the  painter  to  the  author. 
These  are  a  concession  to  the  fine  arts,  not  a 
surrender  to  them.  Perhaps  we  may  connect 
this  as  an  indication  with  the  strong  moral  pur 
pose  of  his  books,  his  resolute  refusal  to  postpone 
the  essential  and  earnest  in  conduct  to  the  soft 
and  decorative.  He  proposes,  at  times,  as  the 
worldly  will  have  it,  ideals  that  seem  almost 
fantastically  impracticable. 

I  am  speaking  too  much,  perhaps,  of  this  latest 
home,  occupied  for  so  brief  a  time.  It  is  not  the 
only  one  in  which  he  has  ever  dwelt.  Howells 
was  born  in  Ohio  in  1837.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
country  editor.  He  saw  many  hardships  in  those 
days,  but  there  was  influence  enough  to  have  him 
appointed  consul  to  Venice,  under  Lincoln.  He 
married,  while  still  consul,  a  lady  of  a  prominent 


204  MR.   HO  WELLS. 

Vermont  Family.  The  newspapers  will  have  it 
from  time  to  time  that  Mrs.  Howells  is  a  great 
critic  of  and  assistant  in  his  works.  I  shall  only 
say  of  this,  that  she  is  of  an  agreeable  character, 
and  an  intelligence  and  animation  that  seem  fully 
capable  of  it.  On  returning  to  this  country  he 
took  up  his  residence  for  a  while  in  New  York, 
and  brightened  the  columns  of  The  Nation  with 
some  of  its  earliest  literary  contributions.  He 
had  for  some  time  written  poems.  These  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  Lowell,  who  was  editor 
of  The  Atlantic.  He  became  Mr.  Field's  assist 
ant  in  1866,  when  the  latter  assumed  the  editor 
ship,  and  in  1872  succeeded  to  the  chief  place,  in 
which  he  continued  till  1881,  when  he  resigned  it 
to  be  followed  by  Aldrich.  During  this  time  of 
editorship,  he  lived  mainly  at  Cambridge,  first  in 
a  small  house  he  purchased  on  Sacramento 
Street,  and  later,  for  some  years,  in  one  on  Con 
cord  Avenue,  which  he  built  and  still  owns. 
This  latter  was  a  pleasant,  serviceable  cottage,  a 
good  place  to  work,  but  with  nothing  particularly 
striking  about  it.  It  was  there  I  first  saw  him, 
having  brought  him,  with  due  fear  and  awe,  my 
first  novel,  "  Detmold."  But  how  little  reason 
for  awe  it  proved  there  really  was  !  Nobody  was 
ever  more  courteous,  unaffected  and  reassuring 
than  he.  I  remember  we  took  a  short  walk  af 
terwards,  a  part  of  my  way  homeward.  He 


MR.  HO  WELLS.  20$ 

pretended,  as  we  reached  Harvard  College,  that 
it  would  not  be  safe  for  me  to  entertain  any 
opinions  differing  from  his  own,  on  the  mooted 
question  of  the  heavy  roof  of  the  new  Memorial 
Hall,  since  the  fate  of  my  manuscript  was  in  his 
dictatorial  hands ! 

From  Cambridge  he  removed  to  the  pretty  sub 
urb  of  Belmont,  some  five  miles  out  of  Boston, 
to  a  house  built  for  him  by  Mr.  Charles  Fair- 
child,  on  that  gentleman's  own  estate.  This 
house,  called  Red  Top,  from  its  red  roof  and 
the  red  timothy  grass  in  the  neighborhood, 
was  described  and  pictured  some  years  ago  in 
Harper  s  Magazine \  in  Mr.  Lathrop's  article  on 
Literary  and  Social  Boston.  As  I  recollect  it,  this 
was  the  most  elaborate  of  his  several  abodes. 
There  were  carried  out  many  of  the  luxurious 
decorative  features  so  essential  according  to  the 
modern  ideal.  He  had  a  study  done  in  white  in 
the  colonial  taste,  and  a  square  entrance-hall  with 
benches  and  fire-place  ;  but  I  fancy,  even  here,  he 
enjoyed  most  the  wide  view  from  his  windows, 
and  his  walks  in  the  hilly  country.  It  was  the 
eye  of  the  imagination  rather  than  of  the  body 
that  with  him  most  sought  gratification.  He 
lived  on  the  hillside  at  Belmont  four  years.  His 
moving  away  from  there  about  coincides  with 
the  time  of  his  giving  up  the  editing  of  The 
Atlantic.  He  went  abroad  with  his  family, 


206  MR.  HO  WELLS. 

remained  a  year,  and  then  returned  to  Boston. 
It  will  be  seen  that  he  has  not  shown  much  more 
than  the  usual  American  fixity  of  residence,  and 
perhaps  we  need  not  despair  of  his  finally  com 
ing  to  New  York,  to  which  many  of  his  later 
interests  would  seem  to  call  him. 

With  his  retirement  from  the  burden  of  editing 
begins,  as  many  think,  a  new  and  larger  period  in 
his  literary  work.  I  am  not  to  touch  upon  his 
original  theories  of  literary  art,  or  to  interpret 
the  much  talked-of  mot  on  Dickens  and  Thackeray. 
As  to  the  latter,  I  know  that  so  magnanimous 
and  appreciative  a  nature  as  his  could  never  have 
really  intended  to  cast  a  slur  upon  exalted  merit. 
He  has  an  intense  delight  in  human  life,  as  it  is 
lived,  and  not  as  represented  by  historians  or 
antiquarians,  or  colored  by  conventional  or  aca 
demic  tradition  of  any  kind.  He  is  still  so  young  a 
man  and  so  powerful  a  genius  that  it  may  well 
be  a  yet  grander  period  is  opening  before  him. 
For  my  own  part,  I  never  quite  get  over  the  lik 
ing  for  the  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  touch,  the  "  once 
upon  a  time,"  the  poem,  as  it  were,  in  the  fiction 
I  read,  and  I  think  shall  continue  to  like  best 
of  his  stories  "  The  Undiscovered  Country,"  in 
which  the  feeling  of  romance — together  with  all 
the  reality  of  life — most  prevails.  However  this 
may  be,  I  cannot  always  repress  a  certain  impa 
tience  that  there  should  be  any  who  fail  to  see  his 


MR.  HO  WELLS.  207 

extraordinary  ability  ;  it  seems  to  me  it  can  only 
be  because  there  is  some  veil  before  their  eyes, 
because  they  have  not  put  themselves  in  the  way 
of  taking  the  right  point  of  view.  Whether 
we  like  it  best  of  all  fiction  or  not,  where 
are  we  to  find  another  who  works  with  such 
power  ?  Where,  if  we  deny  him  the  first 
place,  zealously  look  up  all  his  defects,  and 
take  issue  with  him  on  a  dozen  minor  points, 
are  we  to  find  another  so  original  and  creative 
a  writer  ? 

He  v/rites  only  in  the  morning,  his  work 
being  done  conscientiously  and  with  painstaking. 
After  that  he  devotes  himself  to  his  family,  to 
whom  he  is  greatly  attached,  and  of  whom  he  is 
justly  proud.  Besides  a  son,  who  is  to  be  an 
architect,  there  is  a  daughter,  who  inclines  to 
the  literary  taste ;  and  another,  a  sweet-faced 
little  maid,  known  to  fame  through  the  pub 
lication  of  a  series  of  her  remarkable,  naive,  child 
ish  drawings,  in  the  volume  entitled  "  A  Little 
Girl  Among  the  Old  Masters."  Their  father 
is  not  a  voluble  talker ;  he  does  not  aspire  to 
shine  ;  there  is  little  that  is  Macaulayish,  there 
are  few  tours  de  force  in  his  conversation.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  has  what  some  one  has  de 
scribed  as  the  dangerous  trait  of  being  an  excel 
lent  listener.  It  might  be  said  of  him,  as  it  was 
of  Mme,  Re"camier,  that  he  listens  with  seduction. 


208  MR.  HO  WELLS. 

He  is  not  bent  upon  displaying  his  own  resour 
ces,  but  possibly  upon  penetrating  the  mind  and 
heart  before  him.  Perhaps  this  is  the  natural,  re 
ceptive  mood  of  the  true  student  of  character. 
And  then  it  is  all  so  gracefully  done,  with  such  a 
sympathy  and  tact,  that  when,  afterwards,  you 
come  to  reflect  that  you  have  been  talking  a  great 
deal  too  much  for  your  own  good,  there  comes, 
too,  with  the  flush,  the  reassuring  fancy  that  per 
haps,  after  all,  you  have  done  it  pretty  well.  His 
own  conversation  I  should  call  marked  by  sin 
cerity  of  statement  and  earnestness  in  speculation, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  is  brightened  by  the 
most  genial  play  of  humor.  His  humor  warms 
like  the  sunshine ;  we  all  know  how  steely  cold 
may  be  the  brilliancy  of  mere  wit.  He  is  a  hu 
morist,  I  sometimes  think,  almost  before  every 
thing  else.  He  takes  to  the  humorists  (even 
those  of  the  broader  kind)  with  a  kindred  feeling. 
Both  Mark  Twain  and  Warner  have  been  his 
intimate  friends.  He  wanted  to  know  Stockton 
and  Gilbert  before  he  had  met  them.  In  this 
connection,  I  may  close,  apropos  of  him,  with  one 
of  the  slighter  bons  mots  of  Gilbert.  On  the  first 
visit  of  that  celebrity  to  this  country,  in  company 
with  his  collaborator,  Sullivan,  he  chanced  to  ask 
me  something  about  the  works  of  Howells.  In 
reply,  I  mentioned  among  others  "  Their  Wed 
ding  Journey  "—a  book  that  every  young  couple 


MR.  HO  WELLS.  209 

put  into  their  baggage  when  starting  off  on  the 
tour.  "  Sullivan  and  I  are  not  such  a  very  young 
couple,"  returned  Gilbert,  "but  I  think  we'll 
have  to  put  one  into  our  baggage,  too." 

WILLIAM  HENRY  BISHOP. 

[Mr.  Howells  now  lives  in  apartments  in  New 
York,  where  he  is  editor  of  "  The  Easy  Chair " 
in  Harper's  Monthly  and  a  contributor  to  various 
magazines.  — EDITORS.  ] 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND 


211 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND 

IN    PHILADELPHIA    AND    LONDON 

To  describe  the  home  of  a  homeless  man  is  not 
over  easy.  For  the  last  sixteen  or  eighteen  years 
Mr.  Leland  has  been  as  great  a  wanderer  as  the 
gypsies  of  whom  he  loves  to  write.  During  this 
time  he  has  pitched  his  tent,  so  to  speak,  in  many 
parts  of  America  and  Europe  and  even  of  the 
East.  He  has  gone  from  town  to  town  and  from 
country  to  country,  staying  here  a  month  and 
there  a  year,  and  again  in  some  places,  as  in  Lon 
don  and  Philadelphia,  he  has  remained  several 
years.  But,  as  he  himself  graphically  says,  it  is 
long  since  he  has  not  had  trunks  in  his  bed 
room. 

However,  if  to  possess  a  house  is  to  have  a 
home,  then  Mr.  Leland  must  not  be  said  to  be 
homeless.  He  owns  a  three-storied,  white-and- 
green-shuttered,  red-brick  house  with  marble  steps, 
of  that  conventional  type  which  is  so  peculiarly  a 
feature  of  Philadelphia — his  native  town.  It  is  in 
Locust  Street  above  Fifteenth — one  of  the  emi 
nently  respectable  and  convenient  neighborhoods 
for  which  Philadelphia  is  famous,  with  St.  Mark's 

213 


214  CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

Church  near  at  hand  and  a  public  school  not  far 
off.  But  besides  this  respectability  which  Phila- 
delphians  in  general  hold  so  dear,  Locust  Street 
boasts  of  another  advantage  of  far  more  impor 
tance  to  Mr.  Leland  in  particular.  Just  here  it  is 
without  the  horse-car  track  which  stretches  from 
one  end  to  the  other  of  almost  all  Philadelphia 
streets,  and  hence  it  is  a  pleasant,  quiet  quarter 
for  a  literary  man.  Here  Mr.  Leland  lived  for 
just  six  months,  surrounded  by  all  sorts  of  quaint 
ornaments  and  oddities  (though  it  was  then  years 
before  the  mania  for  bric-a-brac  had  set  in),  and 
by  his  books,  these  including  numbers  of  rare  and 
racy  volumes  from  which  he  has  borrowed  so 
many  of  the  quotations  which  give  an  Old  World 
color  and  piquancy  to  his  writings.  It  was  while 
he  was  living  in  his  Locust  Street  home  that  his 
health  broke  down.  His  illness  was  the  result  of 
long,  almost  uninterrupted  newspaper  work.  He 
had  worked  on  the  Bulletin  and  on  New  York  and 
Boston  papers,  and  he  had  edited  Vanity  Fair, 
The  Continental  Monthly,  Grahams  Magazine  and 
Forney's  Press.  In  addition  to  this  regular  work, 
he  had  found  time  to  translate  Heine,  to  write 
his  "  Sunshine  in  Thought,"  his  "  Meister  Karl's 
Sketch-book,"  and  his  "  Breitmann  Ballads,"  which 
had  made  him  known  throughout  the  English- 
speaking  world  as  one  of  the  first  living  English 
humorists.  But  now  he  was  obliged  to  give  up 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  215 

all  literary  employments,  and,  having  inherited  an 
independent  fortune  from  his  father,  he  was  able 
to  shut  up  his  house  and  go  on  a  pleasure-trip  to 
Europe,  where  he  began  the  wanderings  which 
have  not  yet  ceased. 

Nowadays,  therefore,  one  might  well  ask, 
"  Where  is  his  home  ? — in  a  Philadelphia  hotel  or 
lodgings,  or  at  the  Langham,  in  London — in  a 
gypsy  tent,  or  in  an  Indian  wigwam  ? — on  the 
road,  or  in  the  town  ?  But,  ubi  bene,  ibi patria  ; 
where  a  man  is  happy,  there  is  his  country ;  and 
his  home  too,  for  that  matter  ;  and  Mr.  Leland,  if 
he  has  his  work,  is  happy  in  all  places  and  at  all 
times  ;  and  furthermore,  ever  since  his  health  was 
re-established,  he  has  found  or  made  work  where- 
ever  he  has  been.  He  is  a  man  who  is  never  idle 
for  a  minute,  and  he  counts  as  the  best  and  most 
important  work  of  his  life  that  which  has  occu 
pied  him  during  the  last  few  years.  Consequently, 
paradoxical  as  it  may  sound,  even  in  his  wander 
ings  he  has  always  been  at  home.  During  the 
eleven  years  he  remained  abroad  he  lived  in  so 
many  different  places  it  would  be  impossible  to 
enumerate  them  all.  He  spent  a  winter  in  Russia  ; 
another  in  Egypt ;  he  summered  on  the  Contin 
ent,  and  in  the  pretty  villages  or  gay  seashore 
towns  of  England.  At  times  his  principal  head 
quarters  were  in  London,  now  at  the  Langham 
and  now  at  Park  Square.  It  was  at  this  latter  resi- 


2l6  CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

dence  that  he  gave  Saturday  afternoon  receptions, 
at  which  one  was  sure  to  meet  the  most  eminent 
men  and  women  of  the  literary  and  artistic  world 
of  London,  and  which  will  not  soon  be  forgotten 
by  those  who  had  the  pleasure  to  be  bidden  to 
them.  The  first  part  of  his  last  book  about  the 
gypsies  is  a  pleasant,  but  still  imperfect,  guide  to 
his  wanderings  of  this  period.  There,  in  one 
paper,  we  find  him  spending  charming  evenings 
with  the  fair  Russian  gypsies  in  St.  Petersburg  ; 
in  another,  giving  greeting  to  the  Hungarian 
Romanies  who  played  their  wild  czardas  at  the 
Paris  Exposition.  Or  we  can  follow  his  peaceful 
strolls  through  the  English  meadows  and  lanes 
near  Oatlands  Park,  or  his  adventures  with  his 
not  over-respectable  but  very  attractive  friends 
at  the  Hampton  races.  One  gypsy  episode  car 
ries  him  to  Aberistwyth,  a  second  to  Brighton, 
a  third  to  London  streets  or  his  London  study. 
Thus  he  tells  the  tale,  as  no  one  else  could,  of  his 
life  on  the  road. 

In  December,  1878,  he  returned  to  Philadelphia, 
where  he  established  himself  in  large  and  pleasant 
rooms  in  Broad  Street,  not  knowing  how  long 
he  might  stay  in  America,  and  unwilling,  be 
cause  of  this  uncertainty,  to  settle  down  in  his 
own  house.  He  lived  there,  however,  for  four 
years  and  a  half,  travelling  but  little  save  in  the 
summer,  when,  to  escape  from  the  burning  brick- 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  217 

oven  which  Philadelphia  becomes  at  that  season, 
he  fled  to  Rye  Beach  or  to  the  White  Mountains, 
to  Mount  Desert  or  to  far  Campobello,  in  New 
Brunswick,  where,  in  the  tents  almost  hidden  by 
the  sweet  pine  woods,  he  listened  to  the  Algonkin 
legends  which  he  published  in  book  form  three 
or  four  years  ago.  The  house  in  which  he 
made  his  home  for  the  time  being  is  a  large  red 
brick  mansion  on  the  left  side  of  Broad  Street,  be 
tween  Locust  and  Walnut  streets.  His  apart 
ments  were  on  the  ground  floor,  and  the  table  at 
which  he  worked,  writing  his  Indian  book  or 
making  the  designs  for  the  series  of  art  manuals 
he  was  then  editing,  was  drawn  close  to  one  of 
the  windows  looking  out  upon  the  street.  There, 
between  the  hours  of  nine  and  one  in  the  morn 
ing,  he  was  usually  to  be  found.  From  the  street 
one  could  in  passing  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  fine 
strong  head  which  so  many  artists  have  cared  to 
draw,  and  which  Le  Gros  has  etched  ;  of  the 
long  gray  beard,  and  of  the  brown  velveteen  coat 
— not  that  famous  coat  to  which  Mr.  Leland 
bade  so  tender  a  farewell  in  his  gypsy  book,  but 
another,  already  endeared  to  him  by  many  a 
lively  recollection  of  gypsy  camps  and  country 
fairs.  Here  there  was  little  quiet  to  be  had. 
Broad  Street  is  at  all  times  noisy,  and  it  is  more 
over  the  favorite  route  for  all  the  processions,  mili 
tary  or  political,  by  torchlight  or  by  daylight,  that 


218  CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

ever  rejoice  the  hearts  of  Philadelphia's  children. 
It  is  a  haunt,  too,  of  pitiless  organ-grinders  and 
importunate  beggars.  Well  I  remember  the 
wretched  woman  who  set  up  her  stand,  and  her 
tuneless  organ,  but  a  few  steps  beyond  Mr. 
Leland's  window,  grinding  away  there  day  after 
day,  indifferent  to  expostulations  and  threats, 
until  at  last  the  civil  authorities  had  to  be  ap 
pealed  to.  For  how  much  unwritten  humor,  for 
how  many  undrawn  designs,  she  is  responsible, 
who  can  say  ?  But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
window  had  its  advantages.  Stray  gypsies  could 
not  pass  unseen,  and  from  it  friendly  tinkers 
could  be  easily  summoned  within.  But  for  this 
post  of  observation  I  doubt  if  Owen  Macdonald, 
the  tinker,  would  have  paid  so  many  visits  to  Mr. 
Leland's  rooms,  and  hence  if  he  would  have 
proved  so  valuable  an  assistant  in  the  preparation 
of  the  dictionary  of  shelta,  or  tinker's  talk,  a  Cel 
tic  language  lately  discovered  by  Mr.  Leland. 
"  Pat  "  (or  Owen)  was  a  genuine  tinker,  and  "  no 
tinker  was  ever  yet  astonished  at  anything."  He 
never  made  remarks  about  the  room  into  which 
he  was  invited,  but  I  often  wondered  what  he 
thought  of  it,  with  its  piles  of  books  and 
drawings  and  papers,  and  its  walls  covered  with 
grotesquely  decorated  placques  and  strange  musi 
cal  instruments,  from  a  lute  of  Mr.  Leland's  own 
fashioning  to  a  Chinese  mandolin,  its  mantel- 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  219 

shelf  and  low  book-cases  crowded  with  Chinese 
and  Hindu  deities,  Venetian  glass,  Etruscan 
vases,  Indian  birch-bark  boxes,  and  Philadel 
phia  pottery  of  striking  form  and  ornament. 
It  had  been  but  an  ordinary  though  large  parlor 
when  Mr.  Leland  first  moved  into  it,  but  he  soon 
gave  it  a  character  all  its  own,  surrounding  him 
self  with  a  few  of  his  pet  household  gods,  the 
others  with  his  books  being  packed  away  in  Lon 
don  and  Philadelphia  warehouses  waiting  the  day 
when  he  will  collect  them  together  and  set  them 
up  in  a  permanent  home. 

The  reason  Mr.  Leland  remained  so  long  in  the 
Broad  Street  house  was  because  he  was  interested 
in  a  good  work  which  detained  him  year  after 
year  in  Philadelphia.  While  abroad  he  had  seen 
and  studied  many  things  besides  gypsies,  and  he 
had  come  home  with  new  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
education,  to  which  he  immediately  endeavored 
to  give  active  expression.  His  theory  was  that 
industrial  pursuits  could  be  made  a  part  of 
every  child's  education,  and  that  they  must  be 
comparatively  easy.  The  necessity  of  introduc 
ing  some  sort  of  hand-work  into  public  school 
education  had  long  been  felt  by  the  Philadelphia 
School  Board,  and  indeed  by  many  others  through 
out  the  country.  It  had  been  proved  that  to 
teach  trades  was  an  impossibility.  It  remained 
for  Mr.  Leland  to  suggest  that  the  principles  of  in- 


220  CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

dustrial  or  decorative  art  could  be  readily  learned 
by  even  very  young  children  at  the  same  time 
that  they  pursued  their  regular  studies.  He  laid 
his  scheme  before  the  school  directors,  and  they, 
be  it  said  to  their  credit,  furnished  him  with  am 
ple  means  for  the  necessary  experiment.  This 
was  so  successful,  that  before  the  end  of  the  first 
year  the  number  of  children  sent  to  him  increased 
from  a  mere  handful  to  one  hundred  and  fifty. 
Before  he  left  America  there  were  more  than 
three  hundred  attending  his  classes.  It  is  true 
that  Pestalozzi  and  Frobel  had  already  arrived 
at  the  same  theory  of  education.  But,  as  Carl 
Werner  has  said,  Mr.  Leland  was  the  first  person 
in  Europe  or  America  who  seriously  demonstrated 
and  proved  it  by  practical  experiment. 

These  classes  were  held  at  the  Hollingsworth 
schoolhouse  in  Locust  Street  above  Broad,  but  a 
few  steps  from  where  he  lived.  It  is  simply  im 
possible  not  to  say  a  few  words  here  about  it, 
since  Mr.  Leland  was  as  much  at  home  in  the 
schoolhouse  as  in  his  own  rooms.  Four  afternoons 
every  week  were  spent  there.  On  Tuesdays  and 
Thursdays  he  himself  gave  lessons  in  design  to 
the  school  children,  going  from  one  to  the  other 
with  an  interest  and  an  attention  not  common 
even  among  professional  masters.  When,  after 
the  rounds  were  made,  there  were  a  few  minutes 
to  spare — which  did  not  often  happen — he  went 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  221 

into  the  next  room,  where  other  children  were 
busy  under  teachers,  working  out  their  own  de 
signs  in  wood  or  clay  or  leather.  I  think  in  many 
of  the  grotesques  that  were  turned  out  from  that 
modeling  table — in  the  frogs  and  the  serpents  and 
sea-monsters  twining  about  vases,  and  the  lizards 
serving  as  handles  to  jars — Mr.  Leland's  influence 
could  be  easily  recognized.  On  Saturdays  he  was 
again  there,  superintending  a  smaller  class  of  re- 
poussd  workers.  In  England  he  had  found  what 
could  really  be  done  by  cold  hammering  brass  on 
wood,  and  in  America  he  popularized  this  discov 
ery.  When  he  first  began  to  teach  the  children, 
this  sort  of  work  being  as  yet  little  known,  I  re 
member  there  was  one  boy,  rather  more  careless 
but  more  businesslike  than  his  fellow-hammerers, 
who  during  his  summer  holidays  made  over  two 
hundred  and  eighteen  dollars  by  beating  out  on 
placque  after  placque  a  few  designs  (one  an  Arabic 
inscription),  which  he  had  borrowed  from  Mr.  Le- 
land.  But  after  the  children's  class  was  enlarged 
and  a  class  was  started  at  the  Ladies'  Decorative 
Art  Club  established  by  Mr.  Leland,  work  had  to 
be  more  careful  and  original  to  be  profitable.  On 
Mondays  the  Decorative  Art  Club  engaged  Mr. 
Leland's  time,  many  of  its  members  meeting  to 
learn  design  in  the  Hollingsworth  school-rooms, 
which  were  larger  and  better  lighted  than  those 
in  their  club-house.  This  club,  which  in  its  second 


222  CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

year  had  no  less  than  two  hundred  members,  also 
owes  its  existence  entirely  to  Mr.  Leland,  who  is 
still  its  president.  When  it  is  remembered  that 
both  in  the  school  and  in  the  club  he  worked 
from  pure  motives  of  interest  in  his  theory  and  its 
practical  results,  and  with  no  other  object  in  view 
but  its  ultimate  success,  the  extent  of  his  earnest 
ness  and  zeal  may  be  measured. 

It  may  be  easily  understood  that  this  work,  to 
gether  with  his  literary  occupations,  left  him  little 
time  for  recreation.  But  still  there  were  leisure 
hours ;  and  in  the  fresh  springtime  it  was  his 
favorite  amusement  to  wander  from  the  city  to 
the  Reservoir,  with  its  pretty  adjoining  wood  be 
yond  Camden,  or  to  certain  other  well-known, 
shady,  flowery  gypseries  in  West  Philadelphia  or 
far-out  Broad  Street,  where  he  knew  a  friendly 
Sarshan  ?  ("  How  are  you  ?  ")  would  be  waiting 
for  him.  Or  else  on  cold  winter  days,  when  sen 
sible  Romanies  had  taken  flight  to  the  South  or 
were  living  in  houses,  he  liked  nothing  better  than 
to  stroll  through  the  streets,  looking  in  at  shop- 
windows  ;  exchanging  a  few  words  in  their  ver 
nacular  with  the  smiling  Italians  selling  chestnuts 
and  fruit  at  street  corners,  or  stray  Slavonian 
dealers  (Slovak  or  Croat)  in  mouse  and  rat-traps, 
or  with  other  "  interesting  varieties  of  vaga 
bonds";  stopping  in  bric-a-brac  shops  and  meet 
ing  their  German-Jew  owners  with  a  brotherly 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  223 

"Sholem  aleichem!"  and  bargaining  with  unmis 
takable  familiarity  with  the  ways  of  the  trade ;  or 
else,  perhaps,  ordering  tools  and  materials,  buying 
brass  and  leather  for  his  classes.  Indeed,  he  was 
scarcely  less  constant  to  Chestnut  Street  than 
Walt  Whitman  or  Mr.  Boker.  But  while  Walt 
Whitman  in  his  daily  walks  seldom  went  above 
Tenth  Street,  Mr.  Leland  seldom  went  below  it, 
turning  there  to  go  to  the  Mercantile  Library, 
which  he  visited  quite  as  often  as  the  Philadelphia 
Library,  of  which  he  has  long  been  a  shareholder; 
while  Mr.  Boker  seemed  to  belong  more  particu 
larly  to  the  neighborhood  of  Thirteenth  or  Broad 
Street,  where  he  was  near  the  Union  League  and 
the  Philadelphia  Club.  Almost  everybody  must 
have  known  by  sight  these  three  men,  all  so 
striking  in  personal  appearance.  Mr.  Leland 
rarely  went  out  in  the  evenings.  Then  he  rested 
and  was  happy  in  his  large  easy  chair,  with  his 
cigar  and  his  book.  There  never  was  such  an 
insatiable  reader,  not  even  excepting  Macaulay. 
It  was  then,  and  is  still,  his  invariable  custom  to 
begin  a  book  immediately  after  dinner  and  finish 
it  before  going  to  bed,  never  missing  a  line ;  and 
he  reads  everything,  from  old  black-letter  books 
to  the  latest  volume  of  travels  or  trash,  from 
Gaboriau's  most  sensational  novel  to  the  most 
abstruse  philosophical  treatise.  His  reading  is  as 
varied  as  his  knowledge. 


224  CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND. 

I  have  thus  dwelt  particularly  on  his  life  in 
Philadelphia,  because,  during  the  four  and  a  half 
years  he  spent  there — a  long  period  for  him  to 
give  to  any  one  place — he  had  time  to  fall  into 
regular  habits  and  to  lead  what  may  be  called  a 
home  life ;  and  also  because  his  way  of  living 
since  he  has  been  back  in  England  has  changed 
but  slightly.  He  now  has  his  headquarters  at 
the  Langham.  He  still  devotes  his  mornings  to 
literary  work  and  many  of  his  afternoons  to  teach 
ing  decorative  art.  He  is  one  of  the  directors  of 
the  Home  Arts  Society,  which  but  for  him  would 
never  have  been ;  Mrs.  Jebb,  one  of  its  most 
zealous  upholders,  having  modeled  the  classes 
which  led  to  its  organization  wholly  upon  his 
system  of  instruction,  and  in  cooperation  with 
him.  The  society  has  its  chief  office  in  the 
Langham  chambers,  close  to  the  hotel ;  there  Mr. 
Leland  teaches  and  works  just  as  he  did  in  the 
Hollingsworth  school-rooms.  Lord  Brownlow  is 
the  president  of  this  association,  Lady  Brownlow, 
his  wife,  taking  an  active  interest  in  it ;  and  Mr. 
Walter  Besant  is  the  treasurer.  Mr.  Leland  is 
also  the  father  or  founder  of  the  famous  Rabelais 
Club,  in  which  the  chair  was  generally  taken  by 
the  late  Lord  Houghton.  For  amusement,  the 
Philadelphian  now  has  all  London,  of  which  he  is 
as  true  a  lover  as  either  Charles  Lamb  or  Leigh 
Hunt  was  of  old  ;  and  for  reading  purposes  he  has 


CHARLES  GODFREY  LELAND.  225 

the  British  Museum  and  Mudie's  at  his  disposal ; 
so  in  these  respects  it  must  be  admitted  he  is 
better  off  than  he  was  in  Philadelphia.  He  knows, 
too,  all  the  near  and  far  gypsy  haunts  by  English 
wood  and  wold,  and  he  is  certain  he  will  be 
heartily  welcomed  to  the  Derby  or  any  country 
fair.  But  he  has  many  friends  and  admirers  in 
England  outside  of  select  gypsy  circles.  Unfor 
tunately  he  has  lost  the  two  friends  with  whom 
he  was  once  most  intimate,  Prof.  E.  H.  Palmer, 
the  Arabic  scholar,  having  been  killed  by  the 
Arabs,  and  Mr.  Trubner,  the  publisher,  having 
died  while  Mr.  Leland  was  in  America.  Of  his 
other  numerous  English  acquaintances,  he  is  most 
frequently  with  Mr.  Walter  Besant,  the  novelist, 
and  Mr.  Walter  Pollock,  the  editor  of  The  Satur 
day  Review,  for  whom  he  occasionally  writes  a 
criticism  or  a  special  paper.  However,  despite 
the  many  inducements  that  can  be  offered  him, 
he  goes  seldom  into  society.  He  prefers  to  give 
all  his  energies  to  the  writing  by  which  he  amuses 
so  many  readers,  and  to  his  good  work  in  the 
cause  of  education. 

ELIZABETH  ROBINS  PENNELL. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


227 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

AT  "ELMWOOD" 

Unfortunately,  Mr.  Lowell  is  not  at  home.  He 
is  in  his  own  country  and  among  his  own  people ; 
but  he  is  not  at  Elmwood.  For  nearly  a  decade 
now  his  friends  have  ceased  to  pass  under  the 
portal  of  those  great  English  trees  and  find  him 
by  the  chimney-fire,  "  toasting  his  toes,"  or  en 
gaged  in  less  meditative  tasks  amid  the  light  and 
shadow  of  his  books.  Loss  to  them  has  been 
gain  to  us ;  for  in  the  more  open  life  of  a  man  of 
the  world  and  of  affairs,  at  Madrid  and  London, 
the  public  has  seemed  to  see  him  more  intimately, 
and  has  been  pleased  to  feel  some  share  in  his 
honor  as  a  representative  American  gentleman  of 
what  must  be  called  an  ageing,  if  not  the  old, 
school.  But  for  lovers  of  the  author,  as  for  his 
neighbors  and  acquaintances  and  his  contempo 
raries  in  literature,  Lowell  is  indissolubly  set  in 
Elmwood,  and  is  not  to  be  thought  of  elsewhere 
except  as  in  absence.  There,  sixty-seven  years 
ago,  when  Elmwood  was  but  a  part  of  the  coun 
try  landscape  of  old  Cambridge,  he  was  born  of 
an  honorable  family  of  the  colonial  time,  and 

229 


230  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

learned  his  alphabet  and  accidence,  and  imbibed 
from  the  cultivated  and  solid  company  that 
gathered  about  his  father  the  simplicity  of  man 
ners  and  severe  idealism  of  mind  of  which  he 
continues  the  tradition ;  there,  in  college  days, 
he  "  read  everything  except  his  text-books,"  and 
with  his  cequales  of  the  class  of  1838  won  a  some 
what  reluctant  sonship  from  a  displeased  Alma 
Mater ;  being  in  his  youth,  as  he  once  remarked 
to  the  rebellious  founders  of  The  Harvard  Advo 
cate,  "  something  of  a  revolutionist  myself  ";  and 
it  was  from  there  he  went  out  as  far  as  Boston, 
to  begin  that  legal  career  which  was  not  to  end 
in  the  glory  of  a  justice's  wig.  And  after  the 
early  volume  of  poems  was  published  and  a  kindly 
fire  had  exhausted  the  edition,  and  when  The 
Pioneer — what  a  name  that  was  to  gather  into  its 
frontiersman-stroke  Hawthorne,  Story,  Poe,  Very 
and  the  brawny  Mrs.  Browning  ! — had  gone  down 
in  the  first  financial  morass,  still  the  pleasant 
upper  room  at  Elmwood,  looking  off  over  the 
sweep  of  the  Charles  and  the  lines  of  the  horizon- 
hills,  was  as  far  from  being  the  scene  of  forensic 
discussion  as  it  was  from  taking  its  conversational 
tone  from  the  ancient  clergymen  who,  with  their 
long  pipes,  looked  down  on  the  poet's  friends 
from  an  old  panel  over  the  fireplace.  The  Bar 
has  lost  many  a  deserter  to  the  Muses,  and  it  was 
a  settled  thing  with  the  birds  of  Elmwood — and 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  231 

the  place  is  still  a  woodland  city  of  them — that 
although  they  "  half-forgave  his  being  human," 
they  would  not  forgive  his  being  a  lawyer.  So, 
Lowell  kept  to  his  walks  in  the  country  and  con 
fided  the  knowledge  of  his  haunts  to  the  readers 
of  his  verses,  and  from  the  beginning  rhymed  the 
nobler  human  tone  with  the  notes  of  nature  ;  and 
he  married,  and  many  reminiscences  remain,  among 
the  men  of  that  day  of  that  brief  happiness,  one 
bright  episode  of  which  was  his  Italian  journey. 
The  first  series  of  "  The  Biglow  Papers  "  appeared, 
and  so  his  literary  life  began  definitely  to  share  in 
public  affairs  and  to  take  on  the  guasi-civic  char 
acter  which  was  to  become  more  and  more  his 
distinction,  until  it  should  reach  its  development, 
on  the  side  of  his  genius,  in  the  patriotic  odes, 
and  its  acknowledgment,  on  the  part  of  the  peo 
ple,  in  his  offices  of  national  trust.  Seldom, 
indeed,  has  the  peculiar  privacy  of  a  poet's  life 
passed  by  so  even  and  natural  a  growth  into  the 
publicity  and  dignity  of  the  great  citizen's. 

But,  in  the  narrow  space  of  this  sketch,  one 
must  not  crowd  the  lines  ;  and  in  the  way  of 
biography,  of  which  little  can  be  novel  to  the 
reader,  it  is  enough  to  recall  to  mind  the  gen 
eral  course  of  Lowell's  life  ;  how  he  founded  The 
Atlantic,  which  was  to  prove  a  diary  of  the  con 
temporary  literary  age ;  and  in  the  Lowell  Insti 
tute  first  displayed  on  a  true  scale  the  solidity 


232  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

and  acuteness  of  his  critical  scholarship,  and  gave 
material  aid  to  the  national  cause  and  the  war  on 
slavery,  as  he  had  always  done,  by  his  brilliant 
satire,  his  ambushing  humor  and  more  marvelous 
pathos  ;  and  became  the  Harvard  professor,  suc 
ceeding  Longfellow ;  and  after  a  residence  in 
Leipsic  settled  again  at  Elmwood  to  give  fresh 
books  to  the  world,  and  to  be,  perhaps,  the  most 
memorable  figure  in  the  minds  of  several  genera 
tions  of  Harvard  students.  Nor  can  one  leave 
unmentioned  the  more  familiar  features  of  the 
social  life  in  these  years  of  his  second  marriage — 
a  life  somewhat  retired  and  quiet  but  filled  full 
of  amiability,  wit  and  intellectual  delight,  led 
partly  in  Longfellow's  study,  or  in  the  famous 
Saturday  Club,  or  in  the  weekly  whist  meetings, 
and  partly  in  Elmwood  itself.  That  past  lives  in 
tradition  and  anecdotage,  and  in  it  Lowell  ap 
pears  as  the  life  and  spirit  of  the  wine,  with  a 
conversational  play  so  rich  in  substance  and  in 
allusion  that,  it  is  said,  one  must  have  heard  and 
seen  with  his  own  eyes  and  ears,  before  he  can 
realize  that  what  seems  the  studied  abundance 
and  changeableness  of  his  essays  is  in  fact  the 
spontaneity  of  nature,  the  mother-tongue  of  the 
man. 

It  will  be  expected,  however,  that  the  writer  of 
this  notice  will  take  the  reader  to  the  privacy  of 
Elmwood  itself,  not  in  this  general  way,  but  at 


JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL.  233 

some  particular  time  before  its  owner  discon 
tinued  his  method  of  fire-side  traveling  under  the 
care  of  safe  and  comfortable  household  gods,  and 
tempted  the  real  ocean  to  find  an  eight-years' 
exile.  The  house — an  old-fashioned,  roomy  man 
sion,  set  in  a  large  triangular  wooded  space,  with 
grassy  areas,  under  the  brow  of  Mount  Auburn — 
has  been  familiarized  through  description  and 
picture ;  and  the  author  himself,  of  medium 
height,  well  set,  with  a  substantial  form  and  a 
strikingly  attractive  face,  of  light  complexion, 
full  eyes,  mobile  and  expressive  features,  with  the 
beard  and  drooping  mustache  which  are  so  marked 
a  trait  of  his  picture,  and  now,  like  the  hair,  turn 
ing  gray, — he,  too,  is  no  stranger.  Some  ten 
years  ago  this  figure,  in  the  "reefer"  which  he 
then  wore,  was  well  known  in  the  college  yard, 
giving  an  impression  of  stoutness,  and  almost 
bluffness,  until  one  caught  sight  of  the  face  with 
its  half-recognition  and  good-will  to  the  younger 
men  ;  and  in  his  own  study  or  on  the  leafy  veranda 
of  the  house,  one  perceived  only  the  simplest 
elements  of  unconscious  dignity,  the  frankness  of 
complete  cultivation,  and  the  perfect  welcome. 
If  one  passed  into  his  home  at  that  time  he  would 
have  found  a  hall  that  opened  out  into  large 
rooms  on  either  hand,  the  whole  furnished  in 
simple  and  solid  fashion,  with  a  look  that  be 
tokened  long  inhabitancy  by  the  family  ;  and  on 


234  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

the  left  hand  he  would  have  entered  the  study 
with  its  windows  overlooking  long  green  levels 
among  the  trees  on  the  lawn — for  though  the 
estate  is  not  very  extensive  in  this  direction,  the 
planting  has  been  such  that  the  seclusion  seems 
as  inviolable  as  in  the  more  distant  country.  The 
attachment  of  its  owner  to  these  "  paternal  acres  " 
is  sufficient  to  explain  why  when  others  left  Cam 
bridge  in  summer — and  then  it  is  as  quiet  as  Pisa 
— he  still  found  it  "  good  enough  country  "  for 
him ;  but  besides  this  affection  for  the  soil, 
the  landscape  itself  has  a  charm  that  would  con 
tent  a  poet.  To  the  rear  of  this  room,  or  rather 
of  its  chimney,  for  there  was  no  partition,  was 
another,  whose  windows  showed  the  grove  and 
shrubbery  at  the  back  toward  the  hill ;  and  this 
view  was  perhaps  the  more  peaceful. 

Here  in  these  two  rooms  were  the  usual  fur 
nishings  of  a  scholar's  study — tables  and  easy- 
chairs,  pictures  and  pipes,  the  whole  lending  itself 
to  an  effect  of  lightness  and  simplicity,  with  the 
straw-matting  islanded  with  books  and  (especially 
in  the  further  room)  strewn  with  scholar's  litter, 
from  the  midst  of  which  one  day  the  poet,  in 
search  of  "what  might  be  there,"  drew  from 
nearly  under  my  feet  the  manuscript  of  Clough's 
"Amours  de  Voyage."  The  books  filled  the 
shelves  upon  the  wall,  everywhere,  and  a  library 
more  distinctly  gathered  for  the  mere  love  of 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  235 

literature  is  not  to  be  found.  It  is  not  large  as 
libraries  go — some  four  thousand  volumes.  To 
tell  its  treasures  would  be  to  catalogue  the  best 
works  of  man  in  many  languages.  Perhaps  its 
foundation-stone,  in  a  sense,  is  a  beautiful  copy 
of  the  first  Shakspeare  folio ;  Lord  Vernon's 
"  Dante  "  is  among  the  "tallest  "  volumes,  and 
there  are  many  rare  works  in  much  smaller  com 
pass.  The  range  in  English  is  perhaps  the  most 
sweeping,  but  the  precious  part  to  the  bibliophile 
is  the  collection,  a  very  rich  one,  of  the  old  French 
and  other  romantic  poetry.  More  interesting  in 
a  personal  way  are  the  volumes  one  picks  up  at 
random,  which  are  mile-stones  of  an  active  literary 
life — old  English  romances,  where  the  rivulet  is 
not  of  the  text  but  of  the  blue-pencil,  the  pre 
liminary  stage  of  a  trenchant  essay  on  some  Hal- 
liwell,  perhaps  ;  or  possibly  some  waif  of  a  useless 
task,  like  a  reedited  "  Donne,"  to  whose  manes  the 
unpoetic  publisher  was  unwilling  to  make  a  finan 
cial  sacrifice.  But  the  limit  is  reached.  That 
time  in  which  the  scene  of  this  brief  description 
is  set,  was  the  last  long  summer  that  Lowell  spent 
in  Elmwood. 

GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY. 

[Mr.  Lowell  died  August  12,  1891. — EDITORS.] 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL) 


237 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL) 

AT  "EDGEWOOD" 

Mr.  Mitchell  is  eminently  an  "  author  at  home." 
There  are  many  of  our  popular  writers — both 
citizens  and  country  dwellers — whose  environ 
ment  is  a  matter  of  comparative  indifference  to 
their  readers.  But  the  farmer  of  Edgewood  has 
taken  the  public  so  pleasantly  into  his  confidence, 
has  welcomed  them  so  cordially  to  his  garden, 
his  orchard  and  his  very  hearthstone,  that — in  a 
literary  sense — we  are  all  his  guests  and  inmates. 
In  the  consulship  of  Plancus — as  Thackeray 
would  say — we  Freshmen,  after  our  pilgrimage  to 
that  shrine  of  liberty,  the  Judges'  Cave  on  West 
Rock,  with  its  kakographic  inscription, — "  Op- 
osition  [sic]  to  tyrants  is  obedience  to  God," — 
used  to  turn  our  steps  southward  to  burn  our 
youthful  incense  upon  the  shrine  of  literature, 
and  see  whether  the  burs  had  begun  to  open 
on  the  big  chestnut  trees  that  fringed  Ik  Marvel's 
domain.  In  those  days  the  easiest  approach  was 
through  the  little  village  of  Westville,  which 
nestles  at  the  foot  of  the  rock  and  seems,  from 
a  distance,  to  lay  its  church-spire,  like  a  white 

239 


240       DONALD    G.  MI7THELL   (IK  MARVEL). 

finger,  against  the  purple  face  of  the  cliff.  The 
rustic  gate  at  the  northern  corner  of  Edgewood, 
whence  a  carriage  road  led  to  the  ridge  behind 
the  house,  stood  then  invitingly  open,  and  a 
printed  notice  informed  the  wayfarer  that  the 
grounds  were  free  to  the  public  on  Wednesday 
and  Saturday  afternoons. 

Now,  as  then,  the  reveries  and  dreams  of  Mr. 
Mitchell's  early  books  continue  to  charm  the 
fireside  musings  of  many  a  college  dreamer ; 
and  successive  generations  of  Freshmen  still  find 
their  footsteps  tending,  in  the  golden  autumn 
afternoons  of  first  term,  toward  the  Edgewood 
gates.  But  nowadays  the  pilgrim  may  take  the 
Chapel  Street  horse-car  at  the  college  fence,  and 
after  a  ten  minutes'  ride,  dismounting  at  the  ter 
minus  of  the  line  and  walking  a  block  to  west 
ward,  he  finds  himself  at  the  brink  of  what  our 
geologists  call  "  the  New  Haven  terrace."  Thence 
the  road  descends  into  the  water  meadows,  and, 
crossing  on  a  new  iron  bridge  the  brackish  sluice 
known  as  West  River,  leads  straight  on  across  a 
gravelly  level,  till  it  strikes,  at  a  right  angle,  the 
foot  of  the  Woodbridge  hills  and  the  Old  Cod- 
rington  Road  (now  Forest  Street).  On  this  road 
lies  Edgewood,  sloping  to  the  east  and  south, 
lifted  upon  a  shelf  of  land  above  the  river  plain, 
while  behind  it  the  hill  rises  steeply  to  the  height 
of  some  hundred  feet,  and  shuts  off  the  west  with 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (I  1C  MARVEL).       241 

the  border  of  overhanging  woods  which  gives  the 
place  its  name. 

From  his  library  window  Mr.  Mitchell  can  look 
across  a  little  foreground  of  well-kept  door-yard, 
with  blossoming  shrubs  and  vines  and  bright 
parterres  of  flowers  set  in  the  close  turf ;  across  a 
hemlock  hedge  and  a  grass-bank  sloping  down  to 
the  road ;  across  the  road  itself  and  the  flat  below 
it,  checkered  with  his  various  crops,  to  the  spires 
and  roofs  and  elm-tops  of  New  Haven  and  the 
green  Fair  Haven  hills  in  the  eastern  horizon. 
Southward,  following  the  line  of  the  river,  he 
sees  the  waters  of  the  harbor,  bounded  by  the 
white  lighthouse  on  its  point  of  rock.  Northward 
is  the  trap  "  dyke  "  or  precipice  of  West  Rock, 
and  northeastward,  beyond  the  town,  and  dim 
with  a  violet  haze,  the  sister  eminence,  East 
Rock.  From  the  driveway  which  traverses  the 
ridge  behind  the  homestead  the  view  is  still  wider 
and  more  distinct,  taking  in  the  salt  marshes 
through  which  West  River  flows  down  to  the  bay, 
the  village  of  West  Haven  to  the  south,  and,  be 
yond,  the  sparkling  expanse  of  the  Sound  and 
the  sandhills  of  Long  Island.  Back  of  the  ridge, 
westward,  stretches  for  miles  a  region  which  used 
to  be  known  to  college  walkers  as  "  The  Wilder 
ness,"  from  its  supposed  resemblance  to  the  scene 
of  Grant's  famous  campaign :  a  region  of  scrubby 
woodland,  intersected  with  sled  roads  and  cut 


242        DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL). 

over  every  few  years  for  fire-wood :  a  region — it 
may  be  said  incidentally — dear  to  the  hunters  of 
the  fugacious  orchid. 

The  weather-stained  old  farmhouse  described  in 
"  My  Farm  of  Edgewood  "  made  way  some  dozen 
years  ago  for  a  tasteful  mansion  of  masonry  and 
wood-work.  The  lower  story  of  this  is  built  of 
stone  taken  mostly  from  old  walls  upon  the  farm. 
The  doors  and  windows  have  an  edging  of  brick 
which  sets  off  the  prevailing  gray  with  a  dash  of 
red.  The  upper  story  is  of  wood.  There  are  a 
steep-pitched  roof  with  dormer-windows,  a  rustic 
porch  to  the  east,  a  generous  veranda  to  the  south, 
and  vines  covering  the  stone.  The  whole  effect 
is  both  picturesque  and  substantial,  graceful  and 
homely  at  once.  The  front  door  gives  entrance 
to  a  spacious  hall,  flanked  upon  the  south  by  the 
double  drawing-rooms  and  upon  the  north  by  the 
library,  with  its  broad,  low  chimney  opening,  its 
book-shelves  and  easy-chairs,  its  tables  and  desk 
and  wide  mantel,  covered  and  strewn  in  careless 
order  with  books,  photographs,  manuscripts,  and 
all  the  familiar  litter  of  a  scholar's  study.  At  the 
rear  of  the  hall  is  the  long  dining-room,  running 
north  and  south,  its  windows  giving  upon  the 
grassy  hillside  to  the  west.  A  conspicuous  feature 
of  this  apartment  is  the  full-length  portrait,  on  the 
end  wall,  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  maternal  grandfather, 
painted  about  the  beginning  of  the  century,  and 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL}.       243 

representing  its  subject  in  the  knee-breeches  and 
silk  stockings  of  the  period.  Half-length  portraits 
of  Mr.  Mitchell's  grandparents,  painted  about  1830, 
by  Morse,  the  electrician,  hang  upon  the  side  wall 
of  the  dining-room,  and  an  earlier  portrait  of  his 
mother  surmounts  the  library  mantel-piece.  Mr. 
Mitchell's  culture,  it  will  be  seen,  does  not  lack 
that  ancestral  background  which  Dr.  Holmes 
thinks  so  important  to  the  New  England  Brahmin. 
Three  generations  of  the  name  adorn  the  pages  of 
the  Yale  Triennial.  His  grandfather,  Stephen 
Mix  Mitchell,  graduated  in  1763,  was  a  Repre 
sentative  and  Senator  in  Congress  and  Chief 
Justice  of  Connecticut.  His  father,  the  Rev. 
Alfred  Mitchell,  graduated  in  1809,  was  a  Con- 
gregational  minister  at  Norwich,  in  which  city 
Mr.  Mitchell  was  born,  April  12,  1822.  The 
statement  has  been  made  that  "  Doctor  Johns  " 
was  a  sketch  from  the  Rev.  Alfred  Mitchell ;  but 
this  is  not  true.  Mr.  Mitchell's  father  died  when 
his  son  was  only  eight  years  old,  and  though  his 
theology  was  strictly  Calvinistic,  his  personality 
made  no  such  impression  upon  the  boy  as  to 
enable  him  to  reproduce  it  so  many  years  after. 
Some  features  in  the  character  of  "  Dr.  Johns  " 
were  suggested  by  Dr.  Hall,  of  Ellington,  at  whose 
once  famous  school  Mr.  Mitchell  was  for  some 
time  a  pupil.  The  name  of  Donaldus  G.  Mitchell 
also  appears  on  the  Triennial  Catalogue  for  the 


244       DONALD   G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL). 

year  1792  as  borne  by  a  great-uncle  of  the  present 
"Donaldus,"  who  took  his  bachelor's  degree  in 
1841.  Mr.  Mitchell's  mother  was  a  Woodbridge, 
and  some  four  years  since  he  completed  an  elab 
orate  and  sumptuously-printed  genealogy  of  that 
family,  undertaken  by  his  brother  but  left  un 
finished  at  his  death. 

The  French  windows  of  the  drawing-room  open 
upon  the  veranda  to  the  south,  and  this  upon  a 
lawny  perspective  which  is  at  once  an  example  of 
Mr.  Mitchell's  skillful  landscape-gardening  and  a 
surprise  to  the  stranger,  who  from  the  highway 
has  caught  only  glimpses  of  sward  and  shrubbery 
through  the  hedge  and  the  fringe  of  trees.  The 
Edgewood  lawn  is  a  soft  fold  between  the  instep 
of  the  hill  and  the  grassy  bank  that  hangs  over 
the  road  and  carries  the  hedgerow.  It  is  not 
very  extensive,  but  the  plantations  of  evergreens 
and  other  trees  on  either  side  are  so  artfully  dis 
posed,  advancing  here  in  capes  and  retiring  there 
in  bays  and  recesses,  that  the  eye  is  lured  along  a 
seemingly  interminable  vista  of  gentle  swales  and 
undulations,  bordered  by  richly-varied  foliage, 
along  the  hillside  farms  beyond,  and  far  into  the 
heart  of  the  south.  Here  and  there  on  the  steep 
slope  to  the  right,  and  high  above  the  lawn  itself, 
are  coppices  of  birch,  hazel,  alder,  dogwood  and 
other  native  shrubs,  brought  together  years  ago 
and  protected  by  little  enclosures,  but  now  grown 


DONALD   G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL).        245 

into  considerable  trees.  North  of  the  house  is  the 
neatly-kept  garden,  with  its  beds  of  vegetables  and 
flowers,  its  rows  of  currant  and  gooseberry  bushes, 
its  box-edged  alleys,  and  back  of  all  a  tall  hedge 
of  hemlock,  clipped  to  a  dense,  smooth  wall  of 
dark  green,  starred  with  the  lighter  needles  of 
this  year's  growth.  Mr.  Mitchell  tells,  with  a 
pardonable  pride,  how  he  brought  from  the  woods, 
in  two  baskets,  all  the  hemlocks  which  compose 
this  beautiful  screen.  He  has  two  workshops, — 
his  library  and  his  garden  ;  and  of  the  two  he 
evidently  loves  the  latter  best,  and  works  there 
every  day  before  breakfast  in  the  cool  hours  of 
the  morning. 

Edgewood  has  been  identified  with  its  present 
owner  for  a  generation.  He  was  not  always  a 
farmer;  but  farming  was  his  early  passion,  and 
after  several  years  of  writing  and  wandering,  he 
settled  down  here  in  1855  and  returned  to  his 
first  love.  On  leaving  college  he  went  to  work  on 
his  grandfather's  farm  near  Norwich.  He  gained 
at  this  time  the  prize  of  a  silver  cup  from  the  New 
York  Agricultural  Society,  for  plans  of  farm  build 
ings.  He  became  a  correspondent  of  The  Albany 
Cultivator  (now  The  Country  Gentleman},  con 
tributing  letters  from  Europe  during  his  first  visit 
abroad,  in  1844-6.  This  was  undertaken  in  search 
of  health.  He  was  threatened  with  consumption, 
and  winter  found  him  at  Torquay  in  the  south  of 


246       DONALD   G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL). 

England,  suffering  from  a  distressing  and  persistent 
cough.  From  this  he  was  relieved  after  a  violent 
fit  of  sea-sickness,  while  crossing  the  Channel  to 
the  island  of  Jersey,  where  he  spent  half  a  winter. 
Another  half-winter  was  passed  in  tramping  about 
England,  and  eighteen  months  on  the  continent. 
These  experiences  of  foreign  travel  furnished  the 
material  for  his  first  book,  "  Fresh  Gleanings " 
(1847).  After  his  return  to  this  country  he  studied 
law  in  New  York,  but  the  confinement  was  in 
jurious  to  his  health,  and  in  1848  he  went  abroad 
a  second  time,  traveling  in  England  and  Switzer 
land  and  residing  for  a  while  in  Paris.  France 
was  on  the  eve  of  a  revolution,  and  Mr.  Mitch 
ell's  impressions  of  the  time  were  recorded  in 
his  second  book,  "The  Battle  Summer  "  (1850). 
Again  returning  to  America,  he  took  up  his  resi 
dence  in  New  York,  and  issued  in  weekly  num 
bers  "  The  Lorgnette ;  or,  Studies  of  the  Town, 
by  an  Opera-Goer."  This  was  a  series  of  satir 
ical  sketches,  something  after  the  plan  of  Irving's 
"  Salmagundi  "  papers.  They  were  signed  by  an 
assumed  name,  and  even  the  publisher  was  not  in 
the  secret  of  their  authorship.  The  intermediary 
in  the  business  was  William  Henry  Huntington, 
who  lately  died  in  Paris,  and  who  was  known  for 
many  years  to  all  Americans  sojourning  in  the 
French  capital  as  an  accomplished  gentleman  and 
man  of  letters.  The  "  Lorgnette  "  provoked  much 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL).        247 

comment,  and  among  Mr.  Mitchell's  collection  of 
letters  are  many  from  his  publisher,  detailing  the 
guesses  of  eminent  persons  who  called  at  his  shop 
to  ascertain  the  authorship. 

The  nucleus  of  the  "  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor  " 
was  a  paper  contributed  to  The  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  and  entitled  "  A  Bachelor's  Reverie, 
in  Three  Parts:  I.  Smoke,  signifying  Doubt;  2. 
Blaze,  signifying  Cheer ;  3.  Ashes,  signifying 
Desolation."  Mr.  Mitchell  has  a  bibliographical 
rarity  in  his  library  in  the  shape  of  a  copy  of  this 
first  paper,  in  book  form,  bearing  date  Worms- 
loe,  1850,  with  the  following  colophon:  "This 
edition  of  twelve  copies  of  the  Bachelor's  Re 
verie,  by  Ik :  Marvel,  hath  been :  by  the  Author's 
Leave  :  printed  privately  for  George  Wymberley 
Jones."  This  Mr.  Jones  was  a  wealthy  and  ec 
centric  gentleman,  who  amused  himself  with  a 
private  printing-press  at  his  estate  of  Wormsloe, 
near  Savannah.  The  "  Reveries,"  by  the  way, 
has  been  by  all  odds  its  author's  most  popular 
work,  judged  by  the  unfailing  criterion  of  "  sales." 
In  1851  Mr.  Mitchell  was  invited  by  Henry  J. 
Raymond  to  edit  the  literary  department  of  the 
Times,  then  newly  established ;  but  the  labor 
promised  to  be  too  exacting  for  his  state  of 
health,  and  the  offer  was  declined.  In  May, 
1853,  Mr.  Mitchell  was  appointed  Consul  for  the 
United  States  at  Venice.  In  June  of  the  same 


248       DONALD   G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL), 

year  he  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  F.  Pringle,  of 
Charleston,  and  sailed  again  for  Europe  to  enter 
upon  the  duties  of  his  consulate.  He  was  at 
tracted  to  Venice  by  the  opportunities  for  his 
torical  study,  and  while  there  he  began  the 
collection  of  material  looking  toward  a  history  of 
the  Venetian  Republic.  This  plan  never  found 
fulfilment,  but  traces  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  Venetian 
studies  crop  out  in  many  of  his  subsequent 
writings  ;  especially,  perhaps,  in  his  lecture  on 
"  Titian  and  his  Times,"  read  before  the  Art 
School  of  Yale  College,  and  included  in  his  latest 
volume,  "  Bound  Together  "  (1884).  In  1854  he 
resigned  his  consulate,  and  in  July  of  the  follow 
ing  year,  he  purchased  Edgewood. 

During  the  past  thirty-three  years  Mr.  Mitchell 
has  led  the  enviable  life  of  a  country  gentleman 
— a  life  of  agriculture  tempered  by  literature  and 
diversified  by  occasional  excursions  into  the  field 
of  journalism.  He  has  seen  his  numerous  chil 
dren  grow  up  about  him  ;  he  has  entertained 
at  his  charming  home  many  of  our  most  distin 
guished  literati ;  and  he  has  kept  open  his  com 
munication  with  the  reading  public  by  a  series 
of  books  and  contributions  to  the  periodical 
press,  on  farming,  landscape-gardening,  and  the 
practical  and  aesthetic  aspects  of  rural  life.  He 
edited  "The  Atlantic  Almanac"  for  1868  and 
1869,  and  in  the  latter  year  accepted  the  editor- 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL).       249 

ship  of  Hearth  and  Home — a  position  which  made 
it  necessary  for  him  to  spend  a  part  of  every 
week  in  New  York.  He  was  one  of  the  judges 
of  industrial  art  at  the  Centennial  Exhibition  of 
1876,  and  Commissioner  from  the  United  States  at 
the  Paris  Exposition  of  1878.  His  taste  and  ex 
perience  in  landscape-gardening  have  been  called 
into  play  in  the  laying-out  of  the  city  park  at 
East  Rock,  and  at  many  private  grounds  in  New 
Haven  and  elsewhere.  Of  late  years  the  Uni 
versity  has  had  the  benefit  of  his  services  in  one 
way  and  another.  He  has  been  one  of  the  Coun 
cil  of  the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  since  the  estab 
lishment  of  that  department,  and  has  lectured  be 
fore  the  School.  In  the  fall  and  winter  of  1884, 
he  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on  English 
literature  to  the  students  of  the  University  ;  and 
the  crowd  of  eager  listeners  that  attended  the 
series  to  the  close  showed  that  Mr.  Mitchell  had 
not  lost  that  power  of  interesting  and  delighting 
young  men  which  gave  such  wide  currency  to  his 
"  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor  "  and  "  Dream  Life  "  a 
generation  ago.  Among  the  other  lectures  and 
addresses  delivered  on  various  occasions — several 
of  which  are  collected  in  "  Bound  Together," — 
special  mention  may  be  made  of  the  address  on 
Washington  Irving,  which  formed  one  of  the 
pleasantest  features  of  the  centennial  celebration 
at  Tarrytown  in  1883.  Irving  not  only  honored 


250       DONALD   G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL). 

Mr.  Mitchell  with  his  personal  friendship,  but  he 
was,  in  a  sense,  his  literary  master.  For  different 
as  are  the  subjects  upon  which  the  two  have 
written,  Mr.  Mitchell,  more  truly  than  any  other 
American  writer,  has  inherited  the  literary  tra 
dition  of  Irving's  time  and  school.  There  is  the 
same  genial  and  sympathetic  attitude  toward  his 
readers ;  the  same  tenderness  of  feeling ;  and,  in 
style,  that  gentle  elaboration  and  that  careful, 
high-bred  English  which  contrasts  so  strikingly 
with  the  brusque,  nervous  manner  now  in  fash 
ion.  Among  the  treasures  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  cor 
respondence,  none,  I  will  venture  to  say,  are 
more  highly  valued  by  him  than  the  letters  from 
Washington  Irving,  although  the  collection  con 
tains  epistles  from  Hawthorne,  Holmes,  Dickens, 
Greeley,  and  many  other  distinguished  men. 
Other  interesting  memorabilia  are  the  roughly 
drawn  plans  of  Bayard  Taylor's  house  and  grounds 
at  "  Kennett,"  which  the  projector  sketched  for 
his  host  during  his  last  visit  at  Edgewood. 

In  appearance  Mr.  Mitchell  is  rather  under 
than  over  the  average  height,  broad-shouldered 
and  squarely  shaped,  the  complexion  fresh  and 
ruddy,  the  nose  slightly  aquiline,  the  lips  firmly 
shut,  the  glance  of  the  eye  kindly  but  keen. 
The  engraving  in  The  Eclectic  Magazine  for 
September,  1867,  still  gives  an  excellent  idea  of 
its  subject,  though  the  dark,  luxuriant  whiskers 


DONALD  G.  MITCHELL  (IK  MARVEL).       251 

there  pictured  are  now  a  decided  gray.  It  may 
not  be  generally  know  that,  besides  German 
translations  of  several  of  Mr.  Mitchell's  books, 
his  "  Reveries  "  and  "  Dream  Life  "  have  been 
reprinted  in  Germany  in  Durr's  Collection  of 
Standard  American  Authors. 

HENRY  A.  BEERS. 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN 


'53 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN 

IN   JAMAICA    PLAIN    AND    IN    BOSTON 

The  surroundings  and  experiences  of  Fran 
cis  Parkman  were,  in  some  respects,  very  happily 
in  accord  with  his  aims  and  achievements, 
and  in  other  respects  as  unfortunate  as  one 
could  imagine.  His  home  in  childhood  was 
near  the  forest  of  the  Middlesex  Fells,  Massa 
chusetts  ;  and  his  wanderings  and  shootings  in 
those  woods  early  developed  the  two  leading 
interests  of  his  youth — the  woods  and  the  Indian. 
When  his  literary  taste  and  ambition  were 
aroused,  in  Harvard,  he  chose  as  his  topic  the 
French  and  Indian  or  Seven  Years'  War,  because 
it  dealt  with  these  favorite  subjects,  and,  more 
over,  appealed  to  his  strong  sense  of  the  pictur 
esque.  The  die  was  thus  cast ;  and  thereafter, 
through  college,  through  the  law  school,  indeed 
through  life,  it  molded  his  existence.  For  some 
years  his  reading,  study,  and  vacation  journeys 
all  had  a  bearing  on  that  particular  subject.  On 
leaving  college  he  was  troubled  with  an  abnormal 
sensibility  of  the  retina,  which  restricted  the  use 
of  his  eyes  within  very  narrow  limits.  As  it  was 

255 


256  FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

apparent,  therefore,  that  he  could  not  then  col 
lect  the  vast  body  of  materials  required  for  the 
history  of  that  war,  he  concluded  to  take  up,  as 
a  preparatory  work  in  the  same  direction,  the 
conspiracy  of  Pontiac.  In  accordance  with  his 
plan  pursued  in  studying  all  of  his  topics,  he  vis 
ited  the  localities  concerned,  and,  where  it  was 
possible,  saw  the  descendants  of  the  people  to  be 
described.  Not  content  with  seeing  the  semi- 
civilized  Indians,  he  went  to  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains,  in  1846,  lived  a  while  with  the  Ogallalla 
Sioux,  visited  some  other  tribes,  and  studied  the 
character,  manners,  customs  and  traditions  of  the 
wildest  of  the  Indians.  But  he  bought  this  in 
valuable  experience  at  a  dear  price ;  for  while 
with  these  tribes  on  the  hunt  and  the  war-path 
he  was  attacked  by  an  acute  disorder,  and  being 
unable  to  rest  and  cure  himself,  his  constitution 
was  nearly  ruined  as  well  as  his  eyesight.  How 
ever,  he  returned  safe  if  not  sound  from  his  per 
ilous  journey,  and  wrote  "The  Oregon  Trail" 
(1847)  and  "  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac"  (1851) 
by  the  help  of  readers  and  an  amanuensis.  He 
had  now  to  settle  himself  in  the  prospect  of  years 
of  ill-health  and  perhaps  blindness. 

In  1854  he  bought  a  property  on  the  edge  of  Ja 
maica  Pond,  and  established  himself  and  his  family 
there  in  the  woods  and  on  the  shore  of  a  beautiful 
sheet  of  water — surroundings  congenial  to  his  fan- 


FRANCIS  PARKMAtf.  *57 

cy  and  his  restrained  ambition.  About  ten  years 
of  his  life,  in  periods  of  two  or  three  years,  passed 
as  a  blank  in  literary  labor;  and  during  the  re 
mainder  of  the  time,  frequent  and  long  interrup 
tions  broke  the  line  of  his  efforts.  Such  an  expe 
rience  at  the  opening  of  his  career  would  have  been 
unendurable  without  some  absorbing  pursuit;  and 
having  a  favorable  site  for  gardening  and  an  un 
failing  love  of  nature,  he  took  up  the  study  of  hor 
ticulture.  By  1859  it  nac*  become  his  chief  occu 
pation — one  that  filled  happily  several  years,  and 
to  the  last  occupied  more  or  less  time  according  to 
the  amount  of  literary  work  he  could  do.  His  la 
bors  were  made  fruitful  to  the  public  in  a  profes 
sorship  at  the  Bussey  Institution,  the  publication 
of  "The  Book  of  Roses"  in  1866,  the  presidency 
of  the  Massachusetts  Horticultural  Society,  and  in 
careful  experiments  extending  over  ten  or  twelve 
years  in  the  hybridization  of  lilies  and  other  flow 
ers.  Among  the  most  noted  of  his  floral  creations 
is  the  magnificent  lilium  Parkmanni,  named  by 
the  English  horticulturist  who  purchased  the 
stock.  Mr.  Parkman's  summer  home,  at  the 
Pond,  was  a  plain  but  sunny  and  cheerful  house, 
in  the  midst  of  a  garden  sloping  down  to  the 
water ;  his  study  window  looked  to  the  north,  the 
light  least  trying  to  sensitive  eyes.  The  charm 
ing  site,  the  landscapes  about,  the  greenhouse  and 
grounds  in  summer  full  of  rare  flowers,  were  the 


253  FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

chief  interests  of  the  place ;  for  his  library  and 
principal  workshop  were  in  Boston.  As  much  ex 
ercise  was  necessary  to  him,  he  was  a  familiar  figure 
in  this  pretty  suburb  of  the  city,  either  riding  on 
horseback,  rowing  on  the  pond,  or  walking  in  the 
fields  and  woods. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  these  discouraging 
delays  and  extraneous  occupations,  his  literary 
aims  were  not  forgotten  ;  he  pushed  on,  when 
he  could,  his  investigations  and  composition  by 
the  help  of  readers  and  an  amanuensis.  Those 
who  are  unacquainted  with  the  labor  of  historic 
research  can  scarcely  imagine  the  difficulty,  ex 
tent,  and  tedium  of  his  investigations.  The  reader 
can  glance  over  a  book  and  pick  out  the  needle 
he  seeks  in  the  haystack ;  but  he  who  uses 
another's  eyes  must  examine  carefully  the  entire 
stack  in  order  not  to  miss  a  possible  needle.  Mr. 
Parkman's  ground  has  been  won  inch  by  inch. 
On  finishing  "  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac,"  he 
had  extended  his  first  plan  of  writing  the  Sev 
en  Years'  War,  and  determined  to  take  up  the 
entire  subject  of  French  colonization  in  North 
America  ;  and  instead  of  making  a  continuous 
history,  to  write  a  series  of  connected  narratives. 
He  therefore  continued,  and  extended,  his  journeys 
for  investigation,  in  this  country,  in  Canada,  and 
in  Europe ;  and  by  the  help  of  readers  and  copy 
ists  he  selected  and  acquired  the  necessary  docu- 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN.  259 

ments.  But  even  with  all  the  aid  possible,  the 
preparation  of  the  first  volume  of  the  series  con 
sumed  fourteen  years.  "  The  Pioneers  of  France 
in  the  New  World"  appeared  in  1865,  "The  Jesu 
its  in  North  America"  in  1867,  "  La  Salle  and 
the  Discovery  of  the  Great  West"  in  1869,  "The 
Old  Regime  in  Canada"  in  1874,  "  Frontenac  and 
New  France  under  Louis  XIV."  in  1877,  "Mont- 
calm  and  Wolfe"  in  1884. 

Mr.  Parkman's  winter  home,  where  he  did  the 
most  of  his  work,  was  in  the  house  of  his  sister, 
Miss  Parkman,  at  50  Chestnut  Street,  Boston — 
a  quiet  locality  on  the  western  slope  of  Beacon 
Hill.  His  study  was  a  plain,  comfortable,  front 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  with  an  open  fire,  a 
small  writing-table  beside  the  window,  and  shelves 
of  books  covering  the  walls.  The  most  valuable 
of  his  treasures  were  manuscript  copies  of  both 
public  and  private  documents.  For  the  sake  of 
greater  safety  and  more  general  usefulness  he 
parted  with  some  of  these  manuscripts — gave 
a  lot  of  fac-simile  maps  to  Harvard  College,  and  a 
collection  of  thirty-five  large  volumes  to  the  Mas 
sachusetts  Historical  Society.  The  latter  embrace 
eight  volumes  of  documents  from  the  Archives  of 
Marine  and  Colonies  and  other  archives  of  France, 
relating  to  Canada,  from  1670  to  1700;  twelve 
volumes  from  the  same  sources,  from  1748  to 
1763;  four  volumes  from  the  Public  Record 


260  FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

Office  of  London,  from  1750  to  1760;  one  vol 
ume  from  the  National  Archives  of  Paris,  from 
1759  to  1766;  one  volume  from  the  British  Mu 
seum,  from  1751  to  1761  ;  one  volume  of  diverse 
letters  to  Bourlamaque  by  various  officers  in  Can 
ada  during  the  war  of  1755-63  ;  one  volume  of 
letters  to  the  same  by  Montcalm  while  in  Canada 
(Montcalm  had  requested  Bourlamaque  to  burn 
them,  but  Mr.  Parkman,  fifteen  years  before  he 
could  find  them,  believed  in  their  existence,  and 
finally  discovered  them  in  a  private  collection  of 
manuscripts) ;  one  volume  of  Montcalm's  private 
letters  to  his  wife  and  his  mother,  written  while  he 
was  in  America — obtained  from  the  present  Mar 
quis  de  Montcalm  ;  and  one  volume  of  Washing 
ton's  letters  to  Colonel  Bouquet,  from  the  British 
Museum.  The  most  recent  publication,  "  Mont 
calm  and  Wolfe,"  takes  in  twenty-six  of  these 
volumes,  besides  a  large  lot  of  printed  matter  and 
notes  made  at  the  sources  of  information.  The 
above  collection  constitutes  about  half  of  Mr. 
Parkman's  manuscripts.  A  considerable  part 
of  them  cannot  be  estimated  by  pages  and 
volumes,  being  unbound  notes  and  references 
representing  a  vast  amount  of  research.  Two 
sets  of  copyists  sent  him  from  France  and  Eng 
land  copies  of  the  papers  he  designated. 

Mr.  Parkman's  experience  offers  a  valuable  and 
encouraging  example  in  the  history  of  literature. 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN.  261 

On  the  one  side  he  had  poor  health  and  poor 
sight  for  a  vast  amount  of  labor ;  on  the  other  he 
had  money,  time,  capacity,  a  tough,  sinewy,  phy 
sique,  a  resistant,  calm,  cheerful  temper,  and  an 
indomitable  perseverance  and  ambition.  As  in 
some  other  cases,  his  disabilities  seem  to  have 
been  negative  advantages,  if  we  may  judge  by  his 
productions  ;  for  his  frequent  illnesses,  by  retard 
ing  his  labors,  increased  his  years  and  experience 
before  production,  and  forced  the  growth  of  de 
partments  of  knowledge  generally  neglected  by 
students.  He  was  led  to  give  equal  attention 
to  observing  nature,  studying  men,  and  digesting 
evidence.  His  studies  and  manual  labors  in  horti 
culture  and  his  practical  familiarity  with  forest 
life  and  frontier  life  quickened  his  sympathy 
with  nature.  His  extensive  travels  gave  him  a 
wide  knowledge  of  life,  manners,  and  customs, 
from  the  wigwam  to  the  palace.  Far  from  being 
a  recluse,  he  was,  until  his  death  in  1893,  a  man  of 
the  world,  often  locked  out  of  his  closet  and  led 
into  practical  and  public  interests  (for  six  years  he 
was  President  of  the  St.  Botolph  Club  of  Boston, 
and  for  ten  years  one  of  the  seven  members  of 
the  Corporation  of  Harvard  University).  He 
was  naturally  a  student  of  men,  and  a  keen  ob 
server  of  character  and  motives.  His  discourag 
ing  interruptions  from  literary  work,  while  not 
often  stopping  the  above  studies,  forced  upon  him 


262  FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

time  for  reflection,  for  weighing  the  evidence  he 
collected,  and  for  perfecting  the  form  of  his 
works.  Doubtless  human  achievements  do  pro 
ceed  from  sources  more  interior  than  exterior;  but 
the  circumstances  of  Mr.  Parkman's  life  must  have 
conduced  to  the  realism,  strength,  and  pictur- 
esqueness  of  his  descriptions  ;  to  the  distinctness 
of  his  characters,  their  motives  and  actions ;  to 
the  thoroughness  of  his  investigations  ;  and  to 
the  impartiality  of  judgment  and  the  truth  of 
perspective  in  his  histories. 

C.  H.  FARNHAM. 


GOLDWIN  SMITH 


263 


GOLDWIN  SMITH 

AT    " THE    GRANGE  " 

Beverly  Street,  though  it  lies  in  the  heart  of 
the  city,  is  one  of  the  most  fashionable  quarters 
of  Toronto.  About  the  middle  of  its  eastern 
side  a  whole  block  is  walled  off  from  curious  eyes 
by  a  high,  blank  fence,  behind  which  rises  what 
seems  a  bit  of  primeval  forest.  The  trees  are 
chiefly  fir-trees,  mossed  with  age,  and  sombre  ; 
and  in  the  midst  of  their  effectual  privacy,  with 
sunny  tennis-lawns  spread  out  before  its  windows, 
is  The  Grange.  The  entrance  to  the  grounds  is 
in  another  street,  Grange  Road,  where  the  fir- 
trees  stand  wide  apart,  and  the  lawns  stretch 
down  to  the  great  gates  standing  always  hospit 
ably  open.  The  house  itself  is  an  old-fashioned, 
wide-winged  mansion  of  red  brick,  low,  and 
ample  in  the  eaves,  its  warm  color  toned  down 
by  the  frosts  of  many  Canadian  winters  to  an 
exquisite  harmony  with  the  varying  greens 
which  surround  it.  The  quaint,  undemonstrative 
doorway,  the  heavy,  dark-painted  hall-door,  the 
shining,  massy  knocker,  and  the  prim  side- 
windows, — all  savor  delightfully  of  United 

265 


266  GOLD  WIN  SMITH. 

Empire  Loyalist  days.  Just  such  fit  and  satis 
factory  architecture  this  as  we  have  fair  chance 
of  finding  wherever  the  makers  of  Canada  came 
to  a  rest  from  their  flight  out  of  the  angry,  new 
born  republic.  As  the  door  opens  one  enters  a 
dim,  roomy  hall,  full  of  soft  brown  tints  and 
suggestion  of  quiet,  the  polished  floor  made 
noiseless  with  Persian  rugs.  On  the  right  hand 
open  the  parlors,  terminated  by  an  octagonal 
conservatory.  The  wing  opposite  is  occupied  by 
the  dining-room  and  a  spacious  library. 

The  dining-room  has  a  general  tone  of  crimson 
and  brown,  and  its  walls  are  covered  with  portraits 
in  oil  of  the  heroes  of  the  Commonwealth.  Mil 
ton,  Cromwell,  Hampden,  Pym,  Vane,  et  al. — they 
are  all  there,  gazing  down  severely  upon  the  well- 
covered  board.  The  abstemious  host  serenely 
dines  beneath  that  Puritan  scrutiny  ;  but  to  me 
it  has  always  seemed  that  a  collection  of  the 
great  cavaliers  would  look  on  with  a  sympathy 
more  exhilarating.  From  here  a  short  passage 
leads  to  the  ante-room  of  the  library,  which,  like 
the  library  itself,  is  lined  to  the  ceiling  with 
books.  At  the  further  end  of  the  library  is  the 
fireplace,  under  a  heavy  mantel  of  oak,  and  near 
it  stands  a  massive  writing-desk,  of  some  light 
colored  wood.  A  smaller  desk,  close  by,  is  de 
voted  to  the  use  of  the  gentleman  who  acts  as 
librarian  and  secretary.  The  ample  windows  are 


GOLD  WIN    SMITH.  267 

all  on  one  side,  facing  the  lawn  ;  and  the  centre 
of  the  room  is  held  by  a  billiard-table,  which,  for 
the  most  part,  is  piled  with  the  latest  reviews  and 
periodicals.  The  master  of  The  Grange  is  by  no 
means  an  assiduous  player,  though  he  handles 
the  cue  with  fair  skill.  In  such  a  home  as  this, 
Mr.  Goldwin  Smith  may  be  considered  to  have 
struck  deep  root  into  Canadian  soil ;  and  as  his 
wife,  whose  bright  hospitality  gives  The  Grange 
its  highest  charm,  is  a  Canadian  woman,  he  has 
every  right  to  regard  himself  as  identified  with 
Canada.  In  person,  Mr.  Smith  is  very  tall, 
straight,  spare ;  his  face  keen,  grave,  almost 
severe ;  his  iron-gray  hair  cut  close  ;  his  eyes 
restless,  alert,  piercing,  but  capable  at  times  of 
an  unexpected  gentleness  and  sweetness ;  his 
smile  so  agreeable  that  one  must  the  more  lament 
its  rarity.  The  countenance  and  manner  are 
preeminently  those  of  the  critic,  the  investiga 
tor,  the  tester.  As  he  concerns  himself  earnestly 
in  all  our  most  important  public  affairs,  his 
general  appearance,  through  the  medium  of  the 
Toronto  Grip,  our  Canadian  Punch,  has  come  to 
be  by  no  means  unfamiliar  to  the  people  of 
Canada. 

In  becoming  a  Canadian,  Goldwin  Smith  has 
not  ceased  to  be  an  Englishman ;  he  has  also 
desired  to  become  an  American,  by  the  way. 
He  holds  his  English  audience  through  the  pages 


268  GOLD  WIN    SMITH. 

of  The  Contemporary  and  The  Nineteenth  Century, 
and  he  addresses  Americans  for  some  weeks 
every  year  from  a  chair  in  Cornell  University.  In 
Canada  he  chooses  to  speak  from  behind  an 
extremely  diaphanous  veil — the  nom  de  plume  of 
"  A  Bystander ";  and  under  this  name  he  for 
some  time  issued  a  small  monthly  (changed  to  a 
quarterly  before  its  discontinuance),  which  was 
written  entirely  by  himself,  and  treated  of  cur 
rent  events  and  the  thought  of  the  hour.  That 
periodical  has  now  been  succeeded  by  The  Week, 
to  which  the  Bystander  has  been  a  contribu 
tor  since  the  paper  was  founded.  It  were  out 
of  place  to  speak  here  of  Goldwin  Smith's  career 
and  work  in  England ;  it  would  be  telling,  too, 
what  is  pretty  widely  known.  In  Canada  his 
influence  has  been  far  deeper  than  is  generally 
imagined,  or  than,  to  a  surface-glance,  would 
appear.  On  his  first  coming  here  he  was  unfair 
ly  and  relentlessly  attacked  by  what  was  at  the 
time  the  most  powerful  journal  in  Canada,  the 
Toronto  Globe  ;  and  he  has  not  lacked  sharp  but 
irregular  antagonism  ever  since.  Somewhat 
relentless  himself,  as  evinced  by  his  attitude 
toward  the  Irish  and  the  Jews,  and  having  always 
one  organ  or  another  in  his  control,  he  has  long 
ago  wiped  out  his  score  against  the  Globe,  and 
inspired  a  good  many  of  his  adversaries  with  dis 
cretion.  He  devotes  all  his  energy  and  time,  at 


GOLD  WIN   SMITH.  269 

least  so  far  as  the  world  knows,  to  work  of  a 
more  or  less  ephemeral  nature  ;  and  when  urged 
to  the  creation  of  something  permanent,  some 
thing  commensurate  with  his  genius,  he  is  wont 
to  reply  that  he  regards  himself  rather  as  a  jour 
nalist  than  an  author.  He  would  live  not  by 
books,  but  by  his  mark  stamped  on  men's  minds. 
It  does,  indeed,  at  first  sight,  surprise  one  to 
observe  the  meagreness  of  his  enduring  literary 
work,  as  compared  with  his  vast  reputation. 
There  is  little  bearing  his  name  save  the  vol 
ume  of  collected  lectures  and  essays — chief 
among  them  the  perhaps  matchless  historical 
study  entitled  "The  Great  Duel  of  the  Seven 
teenth  Century," — and  the  keen  but  cold  mono 
graph  on  Cowper  contributed  to  the  English 
Men-of-Letters.  His  visible  achievement  is  soon 
measured,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  measure  the 
wide-reaching  effects  of  his  influence.  Now, 
while  a  sort  of  conservatism  is  creeping  over  his 
utterances  with  years,  doctrines  contrary  to  those 
he  used  so  strenuously  to  urge  seem  much  in  the 
ascendant  in  England.  But  in  Canada  he  has 
found  a  more  plastic  material  into  which,  almost 
without  either  our  knowledge  or  consent,  his  lines 
have  sunk  deeper.  His  direct  teachings,  perhaps, 
have  not  greatly  prevailed  with  us.  He  has  not 
called  into  being  anything  like  a  Bystander  party, 
lor  instance,  to  wage  war  against  party  govern- 


270  GOLD  WIN    SMITH. 

ment,  and  other  great  or  little  objects  of  his 
attack.  For  this  his  genius  is  not  synthetic 
enough — it  is  too  disintegrating.  But  his  in 
fluence  pervades  all  parties,  and  has  proved  a 
mighty  shatterer  of  fetters  amongst  us — a  swift 
solvent  of  many  cast-iron  prejudices.  He  has 
opened,  liberalized,  to  some  extent  deprovin- 
cialized,  our  thought,  and  has  convinced  us  that 
some  of  our  most  revered  fetishes  were  but 
feathers  and  a  rattle  after  all.  But  he  sees  too 
many  sides  of  a  question  to  give  unmixed  satis 
faction  to  anybody.  The  Canadian  Nationalists, 
with  whom  he  is  believed  to  be  in  sympathy,  owe 
him  both  gratitude  and  a  grudge.  He  has  made 
plain  to  us  our  right  to  our  doctrines,  and  the 
Tightness  of  our  doctrines  ;  he  has  made  ridicu 
lous  those  who  would  cry  "  Treason "  after  us. 
But  we  could  wish  that  he  would  suffer  us  to 
indulge  a  little  youthful  enthusiasm,  as  would 
become  a  people  unquestionably  young;  and  also 
that  he  would  refrain  from  showing  us  quite  so 
vividly  and  persistently  all  the  lions  in  our  path. 
We  think  we  can  deal  with  each  as  it  comes 
against  us.  His  words  go  far  to  weaken  our  faith 
in  the  ultimate  consolidation  of  Canada ;  he 
tends  to  retard  our  perfect  fusion,  and  is  inclined 
to  unduly  exalt  Ontario  at  the  expense  of  her 
sister  Provinces.  All  these  things  trouble  us,  as 
increasing  the  possibility  of  success  for  a  move- 


GOLD  WIN    SMITH.  271 

ment  just  now  being  actively  stirred  in  England, 
and  toward  which  Goldwin  Smith's  attitude  has 
ever  been  one  of  uncompromising  antagonism — 
that  is,  the  movement  toward  imperial  federa 
tion. 

Speaking  of  Mr.  Smith  and  Canadian  National 
ism,  as  the  Nationalist  movement  is  now  too  big 
to  fear  laughter,  I  may  mention  the  sad  fate  of 
the  first  efforts  to  institute  such  a  movement. 
A  number  of  years  ago,  certain  able  and  patriotic 
young  men  in  Toronto  established  a  "  Canada 
First "  party,  and  threw  themselves  with  zeal  into 
the  work  of  propagandizing.  Mr.  Smith's  co 
operation  was  joyfully  accepted,  and  he  joined 
the  movement.  But  it  soon  transpired  that  it 
was  the  movement  which  had  joined  him.  In 
very  fact,  he  swallowed  the  "  Canada  First " 
party;  and  growing  tired  of  propagandizing  when 
he  thought  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  it,  and  find 
ing  something  else  to  do  just  then  than  assist  at 
the  possibly  premature  birth  of  a  nation,  he  let 
the  busy  little  movement  fall  to  pieces.  The  vital 
germ,  however,  existed  in  every  one  of  the  sep 
arate  pieces,  and  has  sprung  up  from  border  to 
border  of  the  land,  till  now  it  has  a  thousand 
centers,  is  clothed  in  a  thousand  shapes,  and  is 
altogether  incapable  of  being  swallowed. 

As  I  am  writing  for  an  American  audience,  it 
may  not  be  irrelevant  to  say,  before  concluding, 


272  GOLD  WIN  SMITH. 

that  while  Goldwin  Smith  is  an  ardent  believer  in, 
and  friend  of,  the  American  people,  he  has  at  the 
same  time  but  a  tepid  esteem  for  the  chief  part 
of  American  literature.  He  rather  decries  all 
but  the  great  humorists,  for  whom,  indeed,  his 
admiration  is  unbounded.  He  has  a  full  and 
generous  appreciation  for  the  genius  of  Poe. 
But  he  misses  entirely  the  greatness  of  Emerson, 
allows  to  Lowell  no  eminence  save  as  a  satirist, 
and  is  continually  asking,  privately,  that  America 
shall  produce  a  book.  As  he  has  not,  however, 
made  this  exorbitant  demand  as  yet  in  printer's 
ink,  and  over  his  sign  and  seal,  perhaps  we  may 
be  permitted  to  regard  it  as  no  more  than  a  mild 
British  joke. 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 
FREDERICTON,  N.  B. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN 


EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN 


New  York  is  an  ugly  city,  with  only  here  and 
there  a  picturesque  feature.  Still  the  picturesque 
exists,  if  it  be  sought  for  in  remote  corners. 
When  about  to  choose  a  permanent  home,  Mr. 
Stedman  did  not  exile  himself  to  the  distance 
at  which  alone  such  advantages  are  to  be  ob 
tained.  For  he  may  be  said  to  be  the  typical 
literary  man  of  his  day,  in  that  he  is  the  man 
of  his  epoch,  of  his  moment — of  the  very  latest 
moment.  There  is  that  in  his  personality  which 
gives  him  the  air  of  constantly  pressing  the  elec 
tric  button  which  puts  him  in  relation  with  the 
civilized  activities  of  the  world.  He  was  born 
man  of  the  world  as  well  as  poet,  with  a  sensitive 
response  to  his  age  and  surroundings  which  has 
enabled  him  to  touch  the  life  of  the  day  at  many 
divergent  points  of  contact.  He  owes  to  an 
equally  rare  endowment,  to  his  talent  for  leading 
two  entirely  separate  lives,  his  success  in  main 
taining  his  social  life  free  from  the  influences  of 
his  career  as  an  active  business  man.  The  broker 

275 


27<  EDMUND   C.   STEDMAN. 

is  a  separate  and  distinct  person  from  the  writer 
and  poet.  The  two,  it  is  true,  meet  as  one,  on 
friendly  terms,  on  the  street  or  at  the  club.  But 
the  man  of  Wall  Street  is  entertained  with  scant 
courtesy  within  the  four  walls  of  the  poet's  house. 

Once  within  these,  Mr.  Stedman's  true  life 
begins.  It  is  an  ardent,  productive,  intellectual 
life,  only  to  be  intruded  upon  with  impunity  by 
the  insistent  demands  of  his  social  instincts.  Mr. 
Stedman  has  the  genius  of  good-fellowship.  His 
delight  in  men  is  only  second  to  his  delight  in 
books.  How  he  has  found  time  for  the  dispens 
ing  of  his  numerous  duties  as  host  and  friend  is 
a  matter  of  calculation  which  makes  the  arithme 
tic  of  other  people's  lives  seem  curiously  at  fault. 
He  has  always  possessed  this  talent  for  forcing 
time  to  give  him  twice  its  measure.  That  ex 
pensive  mode  of  illumination  known  as  burning 
the  candle  at  both  ends  would  probably  be  found 
to  be  the  true  explanation. 

I  have  said  that  Mr.  Stedman's  town  house 
could  not  be  characterized  as  rich  in  picturesque 
external  adjuncts.  The  street  in  which  it  is  situ 
ated — West  Fifty-fourth — is  of  a  piece  with  the 
prevailing  character  of  New  York  domestic  archi 
tecture.  It  is  a  long  stretch  of  brown-stone 
houses,  ranged  in  line,  like  a  regiment  of  soldiers 
turned  into  stone.  But  the  impassive  chocolate 


EDMUND    C.   STEDMAN.  277 

features,  like  some  mask  worn  by  a  fairy  princess, 
conceal  a  most  enchanting  interior.  Once  within 
the  front  door,  the  charm  of  a  surprise  awaits  one. 
Color,  warmth,  and  grace  greet  the  eye  at  the  out 
set.  If  it  be  the  poet's  gift  to  turn  the  prose  of 
life  into  poetry,  it  is  certain  that  the  same  magical 
art  has  here  been  employed  to  make  house 
hold  surroundings  minister  to  the  aesthetic  sense. 
There  is  a  pervading  harmony  of  tone  and  tints 
throughout  the  house,  the  rich  draperies,  the  soft- 
toned  carpets,  and  the  dusk  of  the  tempered  day 
light,  are  skillfully  used  as  an  effective  background 
to  bring  into  relief  the  pictures,  the  works  of  art, 
and  the  rare  bits  of  bric-a-brac.  One  is  made 
sensible,  by  means  of  a  number  of  clever  devices, 
that  in  this  home  the  arts  and  not  the  upholstery 
are  called  upon  to  do  the  honors.  These  admir 
able  results  are  due  almost  entirely  to  the  taste 
and  skill  of  Mrs.  Stedman,  who  possesses  an 
artist's  instinct  for  grouping  and  effect.  She  has 
also  the  keen  scent  and  the  patience  of  the  ardent 
collector.  A  tour  of  the  house  is  a  passing  in 
review  of  her  triumphs,  of  trophies  won  at  sales, 
bits  picked  up  in  foreign  travel,  a  purchase  now 
and  then  of  some  choice  collection,  either  of  glass 
or  china,  or  prints  and  etchings.  Among  the  pur 
chases  has  been  that  of  a  large  and  beautiful  col 
lection  of  Venetian  glass,  whose  delicate  grace  and 


278  EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN. 

iridescent  glow  make  the  lower  rooms  a  little 
museum  for  the  connoisseur.  But  more  beautiful 
even  than  the  glass  is  the  gleam  of  color  from  the 
admirable  pictures  which  adorn  the  walls.  Mr. 
Stedman  is  evidently  a  believer  in  the  doctrine 
that  there  is  health  in  the  rivalry  of  the  arts.  His 
pictures  look  out  from  their  frames  at  his  books, 
as  if  to  bid  them  defiance.  The  former  are  of  an 
order  of  excellence  to  make  even  a  literary  critic 
speak  well  of  them  ;  for  Mr.  Stedman  has  a  pas 
sion  for  pictures  which  he  has  taken  the  pains  to 
train  into  a  taste.  He  was  a  familiar  figure,  a 
few  years  ago,  at  the  Academy  of  Design  re 
ceptions  on  press-night.  He  was  certain  to  be 
found  opposite  one  of  the  best  water-colors  or  oil- 
paintings  of  the  Exhibition,  into  the  frame  of 
which,  a  few  minutes  later,  his  card  would  be 
slipped,  on  which  the  magic  word  "  Sold  "  was  to 
be  read.  It  was  in  this  way  that  some  charming 
creations  of  Wyant,  of  Church,  and  other  of  our 
best  artists,  were  purchased.  Perhaps  the  pearl 
of  his  collection  is  Winslow  Homer's  "  Voice  from 
the  Cliffs,"  the  strongest  figure-picture  this  artist 
has  yet  produced.  The  walls  divide  their  spaces 
between  such  works  of  art  and  a  numerous  and 
interesting  collection  of  gifts  and  souvenirs  from 
the  poet's  artist  and  literary  friends.  Among 
these  is  a  sketch  in  oil  of  Miss  Fletcher,  the  author 
of  "Kismet,"  by  her  stepfather,  Eugene  Benson; 


EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN.  279 

a  bronze  bas-relief  of  Bayard  Taylor,  who  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Stedman's  ;  and  a  com 
panion  relief  of  the  latter  poet,  hanging  side  by 
side  with  that  of  his  friend  as  if  lovingly  to  empha 
size  their  companionship. 

The  usual  parallelogram  of  the  New  York  parlor 
is  broken,  by  the  pleasantly  irregular  shape  of  the 
rooms,  into  a  series  of  unexpected  openings,  turn 
ings  and  corners.  At  the  most  distant  end,  beyond 
the  square  drawing-room,  the  perspective  is  de 
fined  by  the  rich  tones  of  a  long  stretch  of  stained 
glass.  The  figures  are  neither  those  of  nymph 
nor  satyr,  nor  yet  of  the  aesthetic  young  damsel 
in  amber  garments  whom  Burne-Jonesand  William 
Morris  would  have  us  accept  as  the  successor  of 
these.  Here  sit  two  strangely  familiar-looking 
stolid  Dutchmen  in  colonial  dress,  puffing  their 
pipes  in  an  old-time  kitchen.  They  are  Peter 
Stuyvesant  and  Govert  Loockermans,  in  the  act 
of  being  waited  upon  by  "  goede-vrouw  Maria,  .  .  . 
bustling  at  her  best  to  spread  the  New  Year's 
table."  Lest  the  gazer  might  be  in  need  of  an 
introduction  to  these  three  jovial  creations  of  the 
poet's  fancy,  there  are  lines  of  the  poem  inter 
twined  with  the  holly  which  serves  as  a  decorative 
adjunct.  No  more  fitting  entrance  could  have 
been  chosen  to  the  Stedman  dining-room  than 
this.  If  there  was  no  other  company,  there  was 
always  the  extra  plate  and  an  empty  chair  await- 


EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN. 

ing  the  coming  guest.  It  has  pleased  the  humor 
of  Boston  to  lance  its  arrows  of  wit  at  New  York 
for  the  latter's  pretensions  to  establishing  literary 
circles  and  coteries.  When  literary  Boston  was 
invited  to  the  Stedmans  to  dinner,  these  satiri 
cal  arrows  seemed  suddenly  to  lose  their  edge. 
During  the  four  or  five  years  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Stedman  occupied  their  charming  house,  New 
York  had  as  distinctly  a  literary  center  as  either 
Paris  or  London.  On  Sunday  evenings,  the 
evenings  at  home,  there  was  such  a  varied  as 
semblage  of  guests  as  only  a  metropolis  can  bring 
together.  Not  only  authors  and  artists,  critics  and 
professional  men,  but  fashion  and  society,  found 
their  way  there.  At  the  weekly  dinners  were  to 
be  met  the  distinguished  foreigner,  the  latest  suc 
cessful  novelist  or  young  poet,  and  the  wittiest 
and  the  most  beautiful  women.  As  if  in  humor 
ous  mockery  of  the  difficulties  attendant  upon 
literary  success  and  recognition,  the  dining-room 
in  its  size  and  seating  capacity  might  not  inaptly 
be  likened  to  that  Oriental  figure  of  speech  by 
which  the  rich  found  heaven  so  impossible  of 
access.  The  smallness  of  the  room  only  served, 
however,  like  certain  chemical  apparatus,  to  con 
dense  and  liberate  the  brilliant  conversational 
gases.  If  the  poet  were  in  his  most  gracious 
mood,  the  more  favored  guests,  after  dinner,  might 
be  allowed  a  glimpse  of  the  library.  Books  were 


EDMUN-D   C.  STEDMAN.  281 

scattered  so  profusely  over  the  house,  that  each 
room  might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  one. 
But  in  a  large  square  room  at  the  top  of  the  house 
is  the  library  proper — workshop  and  study  to 
gether.  This  building  his  poet's  nest  under  the 
eaves  of  his  own  cornice  is  the  one  evidence  of 
the  recluse  in  Stedman's  character.  When  he  is 
about  to  pluck  his  own  plumage  that  his  fledglings 
may  be  covered,  he  turns  his  back  on  the  world. 
All  the  paraphernalia  of  his  toil  are  about  him. 
The  evidences  of  the  range  and  the  extent  of  his 
reading  and  scholarship  are  to  be  found  in  taking 
down  some  of  the  volumes  on  the  shelves.  Here 
are  the  Greek  classics,  in  the  original,  with  loose 
sheets  among  the  pages,  where  are  translations 
of  Theocritus  or  Bion,  done  into  finished  English 
verse.  Mr.  Stedman's  proficiency  in  Doric  Greek 
is  matched  by  his  familiarity  with  the  modern 
French  classics,  whose  lightness  of  touch  and  airy 
grace  he  has  caught  in  "  Aucassin  and  Nicolette," 
<(  Toujours  Amour,"  and  "  Jean  Prouvaire's  Song." 
With  a  delicate  sense  of  fitness,  the  dainty  verse 
of  Coppe"e,  Be"ranger,  Theodore  de  Banville,  the 
sonnets  of  Victor  Hugo,  and,  indeed,  his  whole 
collection  of  the  French  poets,  is  bound  in  ex 
quisite  vellum  or  morocco.  Among  these  volumes 
the  poet's  own  works  appear  in  several  rare  and 
beautiful  editions.  There  are  the  "  Songs  and 
Ballads,"  issued  by  the  Bookfellows  Club,  the 


282  EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN. 

essay  on  Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  vellum  (the  first  so 
bound  in  America),  and  other  beautifully  illus 
trated  and  printed  copies  of  his  poems.  The 
shelves  and  tables  are  laden  with  a  wealth  of 
literary  treasure.  But  there  is  one  volume  one 
holds  with  a  truly  reverent  delight.  It  is  Mrs. 
Browning's  own  copy  of  "  Casa  Guidi  Windows," 
with  interlineations  and  corrections.  It  was  the 
gift  of  the  poetess  to  Mrs.  Kinney,  Stedman's 
mother,  who  was  among  Mrs.  Browning's  intimate 
friends.  "  How  John  Brown  took  Harper's 
Ferry,"  it  is  pleasant  to  learn,  was  an  especial 
favorite  with  the  great  songstress. 

Since  the  reversal  of  fortune  which  overwhelmed 
Mr.  Stedman  five  years  ago,  this  charming  home 
has  been  temporarily  leased.  The  family,  how 
ever,  were  altogether  fortunate  in  securing  Bayard 
Taylor's  old  home  in  East  Thirtieth  Street,  during 
an  absence  in  Europe  of  the  latter's  wife  and 
daughter.  Here  the  conditions  surrounding 
Stedman's  home  life  have  been  necessarily 
changed.  The  arduous  literary  labor  attendant 
on  the  publishing  of  his  recently  completed  volume 
on  the  "Poets  of  America,"  which  completes  the 
series  of  contemporaneous  English  and  American 
poets,  together  with  his  work  on  the  "  Library  of 
American  Literature "  (of  which  he  and  Miss 
Hutchinson  are  the  joint  editors),  the  writing  of 
magazine  articles,  poems  and  critiques,  and  the 


EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN.  283 

increased  cares  of  his  business  struggles,  make 
him  too  hard-worked  a  man  to  be  available  for  the 
lighter  social  pleasures.  The  Sunday  evenings 
are,  however,  still  maintained,  as  his  one  leisure 
hour,  and  the  hospitality  is  as  generous  as  the 
present  modest  resources  of  the  household  will 
permit.  Mr.  Stedman's  early  career,  and  the 
native  toughness  of  fibre  which  has  enabled  him 
to  fight  a  winning  battle  against  tremendous  odds 
during  his  whole  life,  furnished  him  with  the  for 
titude  and  endurance  with  which  he  met  his  re 
cent  calamity.  The  heroic  element  is  a  dominant 
note  in  his  character.  At  the  very  outset  of  his 
career  he  gave  proof  of  the  stuff  that  was  in  him. 
Entering  Yale  College  in  1849,  an<^  suspended  in 
'53  for  certain  boyish  irregularities,  the  man  in 
him  was  born  in  a  day.  At  nineteen  he  went 
into  journalism,  married  at  twenty,  and  in  another 
year  was  an  editor  and  a  father.  Ten  years  later, 
after  service  in  all  the  grades  of  newspaper  life, 
the  same  energy  of  decision  marked  his  next  de 
parture.  He  gave  up  journalism,  and  went  into 
active  business  in  Wall  Street  that  he  might  have 
time  for  more  independent,  imaginative  writing. 
The  bread-winning  was  so  successful  that  in  an 
other  ten  years  he  had  gained  a  competence,  and 
was  about  to  retire  from  business,  to  devote  him- 
self  entirely  to  literary  pursuits.  He  now  returns 
to  the  struggle  with  fortune  with  the  old  unworn, 


284  EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN. 

undaunted  patience.  He  has  been  sustained  in 
the  vicissitudes  of  his  career  by  the  cheering  com 
panionship  of  his  wife.  Ever  in  sympathy  with 
her  husband's  work  and  ambitions,  Mrs.  Stedman 
has  possessed  the  gift  of  adaptability  which  has 
enabled  her  to  meet  with  befitting  ease  and  dig 
nity  the  varying  fortunes  which  have  befallen 
them.  In  the  earlier  nomadic  days  she  was  the 
Blanche,  who,  with  the  poet,  rambled  through 
the  "  faery  realm  "  of  Bohemia.  The  "  little  King 
Arthur"  is  a  grown  man  now,  his  father's  co- 
worker  and  devoted  aid.  The  king  has  abdicted 
in  favor  of  a  tiny  princess,  who  rules  the  house 
hold  with  her  baby  ways.  This  is  another  Laura, 
cetat  four,  who,  with  her  mother,  Mrs.  Frederick 
Stedman,  completes  the  family  circle.  It  needs 
the  reiterated  calls  for  grandpa  and  grandma  to 
impress  one  with  the  reality  of  the  fact  that  this 
still  youthful-looking  couple  are  not  masquerad 
ing  in  the  parts.  Mr.  Stedman,  in  spite  of  his 
grayish  beard  and  mustache,  is  a  singularly 
young-looking  man  for  his  years.  He  is  slight, 
with  slender  figure  and  delicate  features.  His 
motions  and  gestures  are  full  of  impulse  and  ener 
gy.  He  has  the  bearing  of  a  man  who  has  meas 
ured  his  strength  with  the  world.  The  delicate 
refinement  and  finish  of  his  work,  as  well  as  its 
power  and  vigor,  are  foreshadowed  in  \\ispersonnel. 
His  manner  is  an  epitome  of  his  literary  style. 


EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN.  285 

His  face  has  the  charm  which  comes  from  high- 
bred  features  molded  into  the  highest  form  of 
expression — that  of  intellectual  energy  infused 
with  a  deep  and  keen  sympathetic  quality. 
Something  of  this  facial  charm  he  inherits  from 
his  mother,  now  Mrs.  Kinney.  As  the  lovely  and 
brilliant  wife  of  the  Hon.  William  B.  Kinney, 
when  the  latter  was  American  Minister  at  the 
Court  of  Turin,  this  gifted  lady  won  a  European 
reputation  for  the  sparkling  radiance  of  her 
beauty. 

As  a  talker  Mr.  Stedman  possesses  the  first 
and  highest  of  qualities — that  of  spontaneity. 
The  thought  leaps  at  a  bound  into  expression. 
So  rapid  is  the  flow  of  ideas,  and  so  fluent  its 
delivery,  that  one  thought  sometimes  trips  on 
the  heels  of  the  next.  His  talk,  in  its  range,  its 
variety,  and  the  multiplicity  of  subjects  touched 
upon,  even  more,  perhaps,  than  his  work,  is  an 
unconscious  betrayal  of  his  many-sided  life.  The 
critic,  the  poet,  the  man  of  business  and  the  man 
of  the  world,  the  lover  of  nature,  and  the  keen 
observer  of  the  social  machinery  of  life,  each  by 
turn  takes  the  ascendant.  The  whole,  woven 
together  by  a  brilliant  tissue  of  short,  epigram 
matic,  trenchant  sentences,  abounding  in  good 
things  one  longs  to  remember  and  quote,  forms  a 
most  picturesque  and  dazzling  ensemble.  Added 
to  the  brilliancy,  there  is  a  genial  glow  of.  humor, 


2 86  EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN. 

and  such  an  ardor  and  enthusiasm  in  his  capacity 
for  admiration,  as  complete  Mr.  Stedman's  equip 
ment  as  a  man  and  a  conversationalist.  He 
would  not  be  a  poet  did  he  not  see  his  fellow- 
man  aureoled  with  a  halo.  His  naturaJUattitude 
toward  life  and  men  is  an  almost  boyish  belief 
and  delight  in  their  being  admirable.  It  is  only 
on  discovering  they  are  otherwise  that  the  critic 
appears  to  soften  the  disappointment  by  the  rigors 
of  analysis.  Stedman  is  by  nature  an  enthusiast. 
He  owes  it  to  his  training  that  he  is  a  critic.  As 
an  enthusiast  he  has  the  fervor,  the  intensity,  the 
exaltation,  which  belong  to  the  believer  and  the 
lover  of  all  things  true  and  good  and  beautiful. 
He  is  as  generous  as  he  is  ardent,  and  his  gift  of 
praising  is  not  to  be  counted  as  among  the  least 
of  his  qualities.  But  the  critic  comes  in  to  tem 
per  the  ardor,  to  weigh  the  value,  and  to  test  the 
capacity.  And  thus  it  is  found  that  there  are 
two  men  in  Mr.  Stedman,  one  of  whom  appears 
to  be  perpetually  in  pursuit  of  the  other,  and 
never  quite  to  overtake  him. 

If  poets  are  born  and  not  made  this  side  of 
heaven,  so  are  sportsmen.  In  Stedman's  case  the 
two  appeared  in  one,  to  prove  the  duality  pos 
sible.  Summer  after  summer,  in  the  hard-won 
vacations,  the  two  have  sailed  the  inland  lakes 
and  fished  in  the  trout  streams  together ;  the 
fisherman  oblivious  of  all  else  save  the  move- 


EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN.  287 

ments  of  that  most  animate  of  inanimate  insects — 
the  angler's  fly ;  the  poet  equally  absorbed  in 
quite  another  order  of  motion — that  of  nature's 
play.  The  range  of  Mr.  Stedman's  acquaintance 
among  backwoodsmen  and  seafaring  men  is  in 
proportion  to  the  extent  of  his  journeyings. 
"  There  are  at  least  a  hundred  men  with  whom  I 
am  intimate  who  don't  dream  I  have  ever  written 
a  line,"  I  once  overheard  him  say  in  the  midst 
of  a  story  he  was  telling  of  the  drolleries  of  some 
forest  guide  who  was  among  his  "  intimates." 
This  talent  for  companionship  with  classes  of 
men  removed  from  his  own  social  orbit  has  given 
Stedman  that  breadth  of  sympathy  and  that  sure 
vision  in  the  fields  of  observation  which  makes 
his  critical  work  so  unusual.  He  knows  men  as 
a  naturalist  knows  the  kingdom  of  animal  life. 
He  can  thus  analyze  and  classify,  not  only  the 
writer,  but  the  man,  for  he  holds  the  key  to  a 
right  comprehension  of  character  by  virtue  of  his 
own  plastic  sensibility.  His  delight  in  getting 
near  to  men  who  are  at  polaric  distances  from 
him  socially,  makes  him  impatient  of  those  whom 
so-called  culture  has  removed  to  Alpine  heights 
from  which  to  view  their  fellow-beings.  "  There's 
so  and  so,"  he  once  said,  in  speaking  of  a  second- 
rate  poet  whose  verses  were  aesthetic  sighs  to 
the  south  wind  and  the  daffodil ;  "  he  thinks  of 
nothing  but  rhyming  love  and  dove.  I  wonder 


288  EDMUND    C.  STEDMAN. 

what  he  would  make  out  of  a  man — a  friend  of 
mine,  for  instance,  in  the  Maine  woods,  a 
creature  as  big  as  Hercules,  with  a  heart  to 
match  his  strength.  I  should  like  to  see  what 
he  would  make  of  him."  Stedman's  own  person 
ality  is  infused  with  a  raciness  and  a  warmth 
peculiar  to  men  who  have  the  power  of  freshen 
ing  their  own  lives  by  that  system  of  wholesome 
renewal  called  human  contact.  Much  of  the 
secret  of  his  social  charm  comes  from  his  delight 
in,  and  ready  companionship  with,  all  conditions 
of  men. 

In  his  present  study  in  the  little  house  in 
Thirtieth  Street  there  are  several  photographs, 
scattered  about  the  room,  of  a  quaint  and  pictur 
esque  seaside  house.  This  is  the  summer  home 
on  the  island  of  New  Castle,  N.  H.  It  has  a 
tower  which  seems  to  have  been  built  over  the 
crest  of  the  waves,  and  a  loggia  as  wide  and 
spacious  as  a  Florentine  palace.  No  one  but  a 
sailor  or  a  sea-lover  could  have  chosen  such  a 
spot.  To  Mr.  Stedman,  New  Castle  was  a  verita 
ble  trouvaille.  It  fulfilled  every  condition  of 
pleasure  and  comfort  requisite  in  a  summer 
home.  The  sea  was  at  his  doors,  and  the  elms 
and  fields  ran  down  to  meet  it.  The  little  island, 
with  its  quaint  old  fishing  village,  its  old  colonial 
houses,  its  lanes  and  its  lovely  coast  line,  is  the 
most  picturesque  of  microcosms  ever  set  afloat. 


EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN.  289 

There  is  no  railroad  nearer  than  three  miles,  and 
to  reach  it  one  crosses  as  many  bridges  as  span  a 
Venetian  canal.  Mr.  Stedman  himself,  the  poet 
John  Albee,  Barrett  Wendell  (one  of  Boston's 
clever  young  authors),  Prof.  Bartlett,  of  Harvard, 
and  Jacob  Wendell's  family,  make  a  charming 
and  intimate  little  coterie.  At  Kelp  Rock  Mr. 
Stedman  is  only  the  poet,  the  genial  host,  and 
the  bon  camarade.  Business  cares  and  thoughts 
are  relegated  to  the  world  whence  they  came. 
The  most  approachable  of  authors  at  all  times, 
at  New  Castle,  with  the  sea  and  the  sunshine  to 
keep  his  idleness  in  countenance,  he  seems  fairly 
to  irradiate  companionship.  His  idleness  is  of  an 
order  to  set  the  rest  of  the  world  a  lesson  in 
activity.  In  his  play  he  is  even  more  intense,  if 
possible,  than  in  his  work.  The  play  consists  of 
five  or  six  hard-writing  hours  in  his  tower  during 
the  morning.  This  is  followed  by  an  afternoon 
of  sailing,  or  fishing,  or  walking,  any  one  of 
which  forms  of  pleasure  is  planned  with  a  view 
to  hard  labor  of  some  kind,  some  strenuous  de 
mand  on  the  physical  forces.  The  evening  finds 
him  and  his  family,  with  some  of  the  group 
mentioned  and  often  with  stray  visitors  from  the 
outer  world,  before  the  drift-wood  fire  in  the 
low-raftered  hall,  where  talk  and  good-cheer  com 
plete  the  day. 

With  such  abundantly  vigorous  energies,  Mr. 


290  EDMUND   C.  STEDMAN. 

Stedman's  quarter  of  a  century  of  productiveness 
is  only  an  earnest  of  his  future  work.  He  has 
doubly  pledged  himself  hereafter  to  the  perform 
ance  of  strictly  original  creative  writing.  As 
critic  he  has  completed  the  work  which  he  set 
himself  to  do — that  of  rounding  the  circle  of 
contemporaneous  poetry.  In  giving  to  the  world 
such  masterpieces  of  critical  writing  as  the 
"Victorian  Poets  "  and  "  Poets  of  America,"  he 
owes  it  to  his  own  muse  to  prove  that  the  critic 
leaves  the  poet  free. 

ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD. 

[Since  this  sketch  was  written  (November,  1885) 
Mr.  Stedman  has  sold  his  Fifty-fourth  Street 
house,  leased  a  house  in  East  Twenty- sixth  Street, 
bought  one  in  West  Seventy-eighth  Street  (1890) 
and  sold  it  in  1895,  at  the  same  time  that  he  dis 
posed  of  "Kelp  Rock."  His  permanent  home  is 
now  at  Lawrence  Park — "Casa  Laura,"  named 
after  his  wife  and  granddaughter — although  he 
spent  last  winter  in  apartments  in  New  York. 
His  most  recent  works  are  his  Victorian  and 
American  Anthologies  and  "  Mater  Coronata,"  the 
poem  written  for  the  Bicentennial  Celebration  of 
Yale  University. — EDITORS.] 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

IN    NEW    YORK 

Among  those  New  York  men-of-letters  who  are 
"  only  that  and  nothing  more  " — who  are  known 
simply  as  writers,  and  not  as  politicians  or  public 
speakers,  like  George  William  Curtis  in  the  older, 
or  Theodore  Roosevelt  in  the  younger,  genera 
tion, — there  is  no  figure  more  familiar  than  that  of 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard.  The  poet's  whole  life 
since  he  was  ten  years  old  has  been  passed  on 
Manhattan  Island  ;  no  feet,  save  those  of  some 
veteran  patrolman,  "  have  worn  its  stony  high 
ways  "  more  persistently  than  his.  The  city  has 
undergone  many  changes  since  the  boy  landed  at 
the  Battery  one  Sunday  morning  over  half  a  cen 
tury  ago,  and  with  his  mother  and  her  husband 
wandered  up  Broadway,  but  his  memory  keeps 
the  record  of  them  all. 

It  is  not  only  New  York  that  has  changed  its 
aspect  in  the  hurrying  years  ;  the  times  have 
changed,  too,  and  the  conditions  of  life  are  not  so 
hard  for  this  adopted  New  Yorker  as  they  were 
in  his  boyhood  and  early  youth.  Perhaps  he  is 

293 


294  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

not  yet  in  a  position  to  display  the  motto  of  the 
Stoddards,  "  Post  Nubes  Lux,"  which  he  once 
declared  would  be  his  when  the  darkness  that 
beclouded  his  fortunes  had  given  place  to  light. 
But  his  labors  to-day,  however  irksome  and  mon 
otonous,  are  not  altogether  uncongenial.  He  is 
not  yet  free  from  the  necessity  of  doing  a  certain 
amount  of  literary  hackwork  (readers  of  The  Mail 
and  Express  are  selfish  enough  to  hope  he  never 
will  be) ;  but  lie  has  sympathetic  occupation  and 
surroundings,  leisure  to  write  verse  at  other  than 
the  "  mournful  midnight  hours,"  a  sure  demand 
for  all  he  writes  (a  condition  not  last  or  least  in 
the  tale  of  a  literary  worker's  temporal  blessings), 
and,  above  all,  that  sense  of  having  won  a  place 
in  the  hearts  of  his  fellow-men  which  should  be 
even  more  gratifying  to  a  poet  than  the  assurance 
of  a  niche  in  the  Temple  of  Fame.  Such  further 
gratification  as  this  last  assurance  may  give,  Mr. 
Stoddard  certainly  does  not  lack. 

The  story  of  the  poet's  life  has  been  told  so 
often,  and  in  volumes  so  readily  accessible  to  all 
(the  best  account  is  to  be  found  in  "  Poets' 
Homes,"  Boston,  D.  Lothrop  Co.),  that  I  do  not 
need  to  rehearse  it  in  detail.  Like  the  lives  of 
most  poets,  especially  the  poets  of  America,  it  has 
not  been  an  eventful  one,  if  by  eventful  we  imply 
those  marvelous  achievements  or  startling  chan 
ges  of  fortune  that  dazzle  the  world.  Yet  what 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  295 

more  marvelous  than  that  the  delicate  flower  of 
poetry  should  be  planted  in  a  soil  formed  by  the 
fusion  of  such  rugged  elements  as  a  New  England 
sailing-master  and  the  daughter  of  a  "  horse-swap 
ping"  deacon?  Or  that,  once  planted  there,  it 
should  have  not  only  survived,  but  grown  and 
thriven  amid  the  rigors  of  such  an  early  expe 
rience  as  Stoddard's?  These  surely  are  marvels, 
but  marvels  to  which  mankind  was  passably  ac 
customed  even  before  Shelley  told  us  that  the 
poet  teaches  in  song  only  what  he  has  learned  in 
suffering. 

Mr.  Stoddard  was  born  July  2,  1825,  at  Hing- 
ham,  Mass.,  the  home  of  his  ancestors  since  1638. 
The  Stoddards  were  seafaring  folk ;  the  poet's 
father  being  one  of  those  hardy  New  England 
captains  whose  bones  now  whiten  the  mid-sea 
sands.  It  was  a  step-father  that  brought  Richard 
and  his  mother  to  New  York ;  and  here  the  boy 
had  his  only  schooling  and  an  unpromising  prac 
tical  experience  of  life.  The  reading  and  writing 
of  poetry  kept  his  soul  alive  during  these  dark 
days,  and  his  achievements  did  not  fail  of  ap 
preciation.  Poe  paid  him  the  back-handed  com 
pliment  of  pronouncing  a  poem  he  had  written 
too  good  to  be  original ;  while  N.  P.  Willis  more 
directly  encouraged  him  to  write.  So  also  did 
Park  Benjamin,  Lewis  Gaylord  Clarke,  and  Mrs. 
Caroline  M.  Kirkland.  But  the  first  friendship 


296  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

formed  with  a  writer  of  his  own  age  resulted 
from  a  call  on  Bayard  Taylor — already  the  author 
of  "  Views  Afoot  "  and  one  of  the  editors  of  the 
Tribune, — who  had  accepted  some  verses  of  the 
poet's,  and  who  was,  later  on,  the  means  of  mak 
ing  him  acquainted  with  another  young  poet  and 
critic — the  third  member  of  a  famous  literary  trio. 
This  was  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  a  younger 
man  than  the  other  two  by  eight  years  or  so  ; 
then  (in  1859)  ^ut  twenty-six  years  old,  though  he 
had  already  made  himself  conspicuous  by  "  The 
Diamond  Wedding  "  and  "How  Old  Brown  took 
Harper's  Ferry."  With  Taylor  Mr.  Stoddard's 
intimacy  continued  till  the  death  of  that  distin 
guished  traveler,  journalist,  poet,  translator  and 
Minister  to  Germany;  with  Stedman  his  friend 
ship  is  still  unbroken.  He  has  had  many  friends, 
and  many  are  left  to  him,  but  none  have  stood 
closer  than  these  in  the  little  circle  in  which  he 
is  known  as  "  Dick." 

When  Mr.  Stoddard  met  the  woman  he  was  to 
marry,  he  had  already  published,  or  rather  printed 
(at  his  own  expense),  a  volume  called  "Foot 
prints."  The  poems  were  pleasantly  noticed  in 
two  or  three  magazines,  and  one  copy  of  them 
was  sold.  As  there  was  no  call  for  the  remainder 
of  the  edition,  it  was  committed  to  the  flames. 
Encouraged  by  this  success,  the  young  poet  saw 
no  impropriety  in  becoming  the  husband  of  a 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  297 

young  lady  of  Mattapoisett.  Elizabeth  Barstow 
was  her  name,  and  the  tie  that  bound  them  was 
a  common  love  of  books.  It  was  at  twenty-five 
(some  years  before  his  first  meeting  with  Taylor 
or  Stedman)  that  the  penniless  poet  and  the  ship 
builder's  daughter  were  made  one  by  the  Rev. 
Ralph  Hoyt,  an  amiable  clergyman  of  this  city, 
"  who  found  it  easier  to  marry  the  poet  than  to 
praise  his  verses." 

Realizing  that  man  cannot  live  by  poetry  alone, 
particularly  when  he  has  given  hostages  to  for 
tune  (as  Bacon,  not  Shakspeare,  puts  it)  he  set  to 
work  to  teach  himself  to  write  prose,  "and  found 
that  he  was  either  a  slow  teacher,  or  a  slow 
scholar,  probably  both."  But  prose  and  verse 
together,  though  by  no  means  lavish  in  their  re 
wards  to-day,  were  still  less  bountiful  in  the  early 
'505  ;  and  even  when  the  slow  pupil  had  acquired 
what  the  slow  teacher  had  to  impart,  he  was  in  a 
fair  way  to  learn  by  experience  whether  or  no 
"  love  is  enough  "  for  husband  and  wife  and  an 
increasing  family  of  children.  Not  long  be 
fore  this,  however,  it  had  been  Mr.  Stoddard's 
good  fortune  to  become  acquainted  with  Haw 
thorne,  and  through  the  romancer's  friendly  in 
tervention  he  received  from  President  Pierce  an 
appointment  in  the  New  York  Custom  House. 
He  was  just  twenty-eight  years  of  age  when  he 
entered  the  granite  temple  in  Wall  Street,  and  he 


298  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

was  forty-five  when  he  regained  his  freedom  from 
official  bondage. 

It  was  in  1870  that  Mr.  Stoddard  lost  his  posi 
tion  in  the  Custom  House.  Shortly  afterwards 
he  became  a  clerk  in  the  New  York  Dock  Depart 
ment,  under  Gen.  McClellan  ;  and,  in  1877,  Libra 
rian  of  the  City  Library — an  anomalous  position, 
better  suited  to  his  tastes  and  capabilities  in  title 
than  in  fact,  since  the  Library  is  a  library  only  in 
name,  its  shelves  being  burdened  with  books  that 
would  have  come  under  Lamb's  most  cordial  ban. 
The  librarianship  naturally  came  to  an  end  in  not 
more  than  two  years.  Since  then,  or  about  that 
date,  Mr.  Stoddard  has  been  the  literary  editor 
of  The  Mail  and  Express — a  position  in  which  he 
has  found  it  hard  to  do  his  best  work,  perhaps, 
but  in  which  he  has  at  least  given  a  literary  tone 
to  the  paper  not  common  to  our  dailies.  He  has 
also  been  an  occasional  contributor  to  The  Critic 
since  its  foundation  ;  until  recently  he  was  a  lead 
ing  review-writer  for  the  Tribune ;  and  he  is  still 
to  be  found  now  and  then  in  the  poets'  corner  of 
The  Independent.  Of  the  books  he  has  written  or 
edited  it  is  unnecessary  to  give  the  list ;  it  can 
be  found  in  almost  any  biographical  dictionary. 
The  volume  on  which  his  fame  will  rest  is  his 
"  Poetical  Works,"  published  by  the  Scribners. 
It  contains  some  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics  and 
blank-verse  ever  written  in  America — some  of  the 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  299 

most  beautiful  written  anywhere  during  the  poet's 
life-time.  His  verse  is  copious  in  amount,  rich 
in  thought,  feeling,  and  imagination,  simple  and 
sensuous  in  expression.  The  taste  of  readers  and 
lovers  of  English  poetry  must  undergo  a  radical 
change  indeed,  if  such  poems  as  the  stately  Hora- 
tian  ode  on  Lincoln,  the  Keats  and  Lincoln  son 
nets,  the  "Hymn  to  the  Beautiful,"  "The  Flight 
of  Youth,"  "Irreparable,"  "Sorrow  and  Joy," 
"  The  Flower  of  Love  Lies  Bleeding,"  or  the 
pathetic  poems  grouped  in  the  collective  edition 
of  the  poet's  verses  under  the  general  title  of 
"  In  Memoriam,"  are  ever  to  be  forgotten  or 
misprized.  In  prose,  too — the  medium  he  found 
it  so  difficult  to  teach  himself  to  use, — he  has 
put  forth  (often  anonymously)  innumerable  essays 
and  sketches  betraying  a  ripe  knowledge  of  lit 
erature  and  literary  history  together  with  the 
keenest  critical  acumen,  and  flashing  and  glow 
ing  with  alternate  wit  and  humor.  Long  prac 
tice  has  given  him  the  mastery  of  a  style  as 
individual  as  it  is  pleasing  :  once  familiar  with  it, 
one  needs  no  signature  to  tell  whether  he  is  the 
author  of  a  given  article. 

The  Stoddards'  home  has  been,  for  sixteen 
years,  the  first  of  a  row  of  three-story-and-base- 
ment  houses,  built  of  brick  and  painted  a  light 
yellow,  that  runs  eastward  along  the  north  side 
of  East  Fifteenth  Street,  from  the  south-east 


300  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

corner  of  Stuyvesant  Square.  Like  its  neighbors 
it  is  distinguished  from  the  conventional  New 
York  house  by  a  veranda  that  shades  the  door 
way  and  first-floor  windows.  The  neighborhood 
to  the  east  is  unattractive ;  to  the  west,  delightful. 
Stuyvesant  Square — "  Squares  "  it  should  be,  for 
Second  Avenue,  with  its  endless  file  of  horse-cars, 
trucks,  carriages  and  foot-travelers,  bisects  the 
stately  little  park — is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
as  well  as  one  of  the  most  "aristocratic  "  quarters 
of  the  city.  (Was  it  not  from  Stuyvesant  Square 
that  the  late  Richard  Grant  White  dedicated  one 
of  his  last  books  to  a  noble  English  lady  ?)  It  is 
the  quarter  long  known  to  and  frequented  by  the 
Stuyvesants,  the  Rutherfords,  the  Fishs,  the  Jays. 
Senator  Evarts's  city  home  is  but  a  block  below 
the  Square.  The  twin  steeples  of  fashionable  St. 
George's  keep  sleepless  watch  over  its  shaded 
walks  and  sparkling  fountains.  By  the  bell  of  the 
old  church  clock  the  poet  can  regulate  his  domestic 
time-piece ;  for  its  sonorous  hourly  strokes,  far- 
heard  at  night,  are  but  half-muffled  by  the  loudest 
noises  of  the  day;  or  should  they  chance  to  be 
altogether  hushed,  the  passer-by  has  but  to  raise 
his  eyes  to  one  of  the  huge  faces  to  see  the  gilt 
hands  gleaming  in  the  sun  or  moonlight.  St. 
George's  is  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Square  to 
Mr.  Stoddard's,  at  the  corner  of  Rutherford  Place 
and  Sixteenth  Street ;  and  a  Friends'  School  and 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  301 

Meeting- House  fill, the  space  between  this  and  the 
Fifteenth  Street  corner.  Past  the  latter,  the  poet 
— true  to  the  kindred  points  of  club  and  home — is 
a  constant  wayfarer.  For  the  Century  Association, 
of  which  he  is  one  of  the  oldest  members,  com 
mands  his  interest  now  as  it  did  when  housed  at  No. 
109  in  the  same  street  that  holds  the  Stoddards' 
household  gods.  The  number  at  which  the  family 
receive  their  friends  and  mail,  and  give  daily  audi 
ence  (vicariously)  to  the  inevitable  butcher  and 
baker,  is  329. 

It  has  taken  us  a  long  while  to  get  here,  but 
here  we  are  at  last ;  and  I,  for  my  part,  am  in  no 
hurry  to  get  away  again.  It  is  just  such  a  house 
as  you  would  expect  to  find  a  man  like  Stoddard 
in  :  a  poet's  home  and  literary  workshop.  There 
is  no  space,  and  no  need,  for  a  parlor.  The  front 
room  (to  the  left  as  you  enter  the  house)  is  called 
the  library.  Its  general  air  is  decidedly  luxurious. 
There  is  a  profusion  of  easy  chairs  and  lounges, 
and  of  graceful  tables  laden  with  odd  and  precious 
bits  of  bric-a-brac.  There  is  more  bric-a-brac  on 
the  mantel-piece.  The  walls  are  covered  close 
with  paintings.  At  the  windows  hang  heavy  cur 
tains;  and  the  portiere  at  a  wide  doorway  at  the 
back  of  the  apartment  frames  a  pleasant  glimpse 
of  the  dining-room.  Rugs  of  various  dimensions 
cover  the  matting  almost  without  break.  The 
fireplace  is  flanked  on  each  side  by  high  book- 


302  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

cases  of  artistically  carved  dark  wood,  filled  with 
books  in  handsome  bindings.  A  full-length  por 
trait  of  an  officer  in  uniform  fills  the  space  above 
the  mantel-piece:  it  is  Colonel  Wilson  Barstow, 
of  General  Dix's  staff,  who  served  at  Fortress 
Monroe  during  the  war,  and  died  in  1868.  It 
hangs  where  it  does  because  the  Colonel  was  Mrs. 
Stoddard's  brother.  Between  the  front  windows 
is  a  plaster  medallion  of  the  master  of  the  house, 
by  his  old  friend  Launt  Thompson.  (A  similar 
likeness  of  "  Willy  "  Stoddard,  and  a  plaster  cast 
of  his  little  hand,  both  by  Mr.  Thompson,  are 
the  only  perishable  mementoes  his  parents  now 
possess — save  "a  lock  of  curly  golden  hair  " — to 
remind  them  of  their  first-born,  dead  since  '61.) 
On  the  east  wall  is  a  canvas  somewhat  more 
than  a  foot  square,  giving  a  full-length  view  of 
Mr.  Stoddard,  standing,  as  he  appeared  to  T.  W. 
Wood  in  1873,  when  the  snow-white  hair  against 
which  the  laurel  shows  so  green  to-day  had  just 
begun  to  lose  its  glossy  blackness.  Alongside 
of  this  hangs  a  larger  frame,  showing  W.  T. 
Richards's  conception  of  "  The  Castle  in  the  Air  " 
described  in  the  first  poem  of  Stoddard's  that 
attracted  wide  attention, — 

A  stately  marble  pile  whose  pillars  rise 
From  deep-set  bases  fluted  to  the  dome. 
***** 

The  spacious  windows  front  the  rising  sun, 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  303 

And  when  its  splendor  smites  them,  many-paned, 

Tri-arched  and  richly-stained, 
A  thousand  mornings  brighten  there  as  one, 

The  painting  has  grown  mellow  with  the  flight  of  a 
quarter-century.  It  shows  the  influence  of  Turner 
very  plainly,  and  is  accepted  by  the  painter  of  the 
scene  in  words  as  a  fair  interpretation  in  color  of 
the  chdteau  en  Espagne  of  his  song.  It  was  a  fa 
vorite  of  Sandford  Gifford's — another  dear  friend 
of  the  poet's,  whose  handiwork  in  lake  and  moun 
tain  scenery  lights  up  other  corners  of  the  room. 
Kindred  treasures  are  a  masterly  head,  by  East 
man  Johnson,  of  a  Nantucket  fisherman,  gazing 
seaward  through  his  glass ;  a  glimpse  of  the 
Alps,  presented  by  Bierstadt  to  Mrs.  Stoddard  ;  a 
swamp-scene,  by  Homer  Martin,  in  his  earlier 
manner;  a  view  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  by  Charles 
Temple  Dix,  the  General's  son ;  and  bits  of  color 
by  Smillie,  Jarvis  McEntee,  S.  G.  W.  Benjamin, 
and  Miss  Fidelia  Bridges.  Two  panels  ("  Winter" 
and  "  Summer  ")  were  given  to  the  owner  by  a 
friend  who  had  once  leased  a  studio  to  J.  C.  Thorn, 
a  pupil  of  Edouard  Frere.  When  the  artist  gave 
up  the  room,  these  pictures  were  sawed  out  of 
the  doors  on  which  he  had  painted  them.  Besides 
two  or  three  English  water-colors,  there  are  small 
copies  by  the  late  Cephas  G.  Thompson,  whose  art 
Hawthorne  delighted  to  praise,  of  Simon  Mem- 
mi's  heads  of  Petrarch  and  Laura,  at  Florence.  A 


304  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

more  personal  interest  attaches  to  an  oil-painting 
by  Bayard  Taylor — a  peep  at  Buzzard's  Bay  from 
Mattapoisett,  disclosing  a  part  of  the  view  visi 
ble  from  Mrs.  Stoddard's  early  home.  Not  all  of 
these  works  are  to  be  found  in  the  library ;  for  in 
our  hurried  tour  of  inspection  we  have  crossed 
the  threshold  of  the  dining-room,  where  such 
prosaic  bits  of  furniture  as  a  sideboard,  dinner- 
table  and  straight-backed  chairs  hold  back  the 
flood  of  books.  One  wave  has  swept  through, 
however,  and  is  held  captive  in  a  small  case 
standing  near  the  back  windows.  The  summer 
light  that  finds  its  way  into  this  room  is  filtered 
through  a  mass  of  leaves  shading  a  veranda  sim 
ilar  to  the  one  in  front. 

The  poet's  "  den,"  on  the  second  floor,  embraces 
the  main  room  and  an  alcove,  and  is  lighted 
by  three  windows  overlooking  the  street.  His 
writing-desk — a  mahogany  one,  of  ancient  make — 
stands  between  two  of  the  windows.  Above  it 
hangs  a  large  engraving  of  Lawrence's  Thackeray, 
beneath  which,  in  the  same  frame,  you  may  read 
"The  Sorrows  of  Werther"  in  the  balladist's  own 
inimitable  hand.  As  you  sit  at  the  desk,  Mrs. 
Browning  looks  down  upon  you  from  a  large 
photograph  on  the  wall  at  your  right — one  which 
her  husband  deemed  the  best  she  ever  had  taken. 
A  delicate  engraving  hangs  beside  it  of  Holmes's 
miniature  of  Byron — a  portrait  of  which  Byron 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  305 

himself  said,  "  I  prefer  that  likeness  to  any  which 
has  ever  been  done  of  me  by  any  artist  whatever." 
It  shows  a  head  almost  feminine  in  its  beauty. 
An  etching  of  Hugo  is  framed  above  a  striking 
autograph  that  Mr.  Stoddard  paid  a  good  price 
for — at  a  time,  as  he  says,  when  he  thought  he 
had  some  money.  The  sentiment  is  practical : 
"  Donnez  cent  francs  aux  pauvres  de  New  York. 
Donnez  moins,  si  vous  n'etes  pas  assez  riche ; 
mais  donnez.  VICTOR  HUGO."  The  manuscript, 
which  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  written  with 
a  sharpened  match,  is  undated  aud  unaddressed. 
Every  one,  therefore,  is  at  liberty  to  regard  it  as 
a  personal  appeal  or  command  to  himself.  Close 
beside  the  Byron  portrait  is  an  etching  of  Mr. 
Stedman  ;  into  its  frame  the  owner  has  thrust 
that  gentleman's  visiting  card,  on  which,  over  the 
date  "  Feb.  14,  1885,"  are  scribbled  these  lines: 

It  is  a  Friar  of  whiskers  gray 

That  kneels  before  your  shrine, 
And,  as  of  old,  would  once  more  pray 

To  be  your  VALENTINE. 

Among  the  treasures  of  mingled  literary  and 
artistic  interest  in  this  room  is  a  small  portrait  of 
Smollett.  It  is  painted  on  wood,  and  the  artist's 
name  is  not  given.  Mr.  Stoddard  has  not  found 
it  reproduced  among  the  familiar  likenesses  of 
the  novelist.  Along  the  wall  above  the  mantel 
piece  runs  a  rare  print  of  Blake's  "  Canterbury 


306  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

Pilgrimage,"  with  the  designation  of  each  pilgrim 
engraved  beneath  his  figure.  It  is  noteworthy 
for  its  dissimilarity,  as  well  as  its  likeness,  to  the 
poet-painter's  more  familiar  works.  The  main 
wall  in  the  alcove  I  have  spoken  of  displays  a  life- 
size  crayon  head  of  Mr.  Stoddard,  done  by  Alex 
ander  Laurie  in  1863.  It  also  gives  support  to 
several  rows  of  shelves,  running  far  and  rising 
high,  filled  chock-full  of  books  less  prettily  bound 
than  those  in  the  library,  but  of  greater  value, 
perhaps,  to  the  eyes  that  have  so  often  pored  upon 
them.  It  is  the  poet's  collection,  to  which  he 
has  been  adding  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  of  En 
glish  poetry  of  all  periods  ;  and  it  has  been  con 
sulted  to  good  purpose  by  many  other  scholars 
than  the  owner.  Under  an  engraving  of  Raphael's 
portrait  of  himself,  at  the  back  of  the  larger  room, 
is  a  case  filled  with  books  of  the  same  class, 
but  rarer  still — indeed,  quite  priceless  to  their 
owner ;  for  they  are  the  tomes  once  treasured  by 
kindred  spirits,  and  inscribed  with  names  writ  in 
that  indelible  water  which  still  preserves  the 
name  of  Keats. 

Of  the  books  of  this  class,  from  the  libraries  of 
famous  authors — some  being  presentation  copies, 
and  others  containing  either  the  owners'  signa 
tures  or  their  autographic  annotations  of  the  text, 
— may  be  mentioned  volumes  that  once  belonged 
to  Edmund  Waller,  Thomas  Gray,  Sir  Joshua 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  307 

Reynolds,  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  Charles 
Lamb,  William  Wordsworth,  John  Keats,  Robert 
Southey,  Hartley  Coleridge,  Lord  Byron,  Thom 
as  Lisle  Bowles,  Felicia  Hemans,  Thomas  Camp 
bell,  William  Motherwell,  and  Caroline  Norton. 
Among  signatures  or  documents  in  the  manu 
script  of  famous  men  are  the  names  of  William 
Alexander,  Earl  of  Sterling;  Fulke  Greville, 
Lord  Brooke ;  Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst, 
author  of  "Gorboduc";  Samuel  Garth,  author  of 
"  The  Dispensary,"  and  others.  Among  the  man 
uscripts  cherished  by  Mr.  Stoddard  are  letters 
or  poems  from  the  pens  of  William  Shenstone, 
Burns,  Cowper,  Sheridan,  Southey,  Wordsworth, 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  Thomas  Moore,  Campbell, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Poe, 
Lowell,  Bayard  Taylor,  Ebenezer  Elliott,  "  the 
Corn  Law  Rhymer";  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
James  Montgomery,  Felicia  Hemans,  Thomas 
Hood,  Bryan  Waller  Procter  ("  Barry  Cornwall  "), 
Miss  Mitford,  Lord  Tennyson,  Swinburne,  Fred 
erick  Locker-Lampson,  N.  P.  Willis,  Charles 
Brockden  Brown,  J.  G.  Whittier,  Nathaniel  Haw 
thorne,  Leigh  Hunt,  Washington  Irving,  Robert 
Browning,  Mrs.  Browning,  and  scores  of  other 
English  and  American  poets  and  writers  of  dis 
tinction. 

Included  in  this  choice  collection  are  the  man 
uscripts  of  Hunt's  "  Abou  Ben  Adhem,"  Thack- 


3°8  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

eray's  "Sorrows  of  Werther,"  Bryant's  "Anti 
quity  of  Freedom,"  Longfellow's  "Arrow  and 
Song  "  ("  I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air "),  Mrs. 
Browning's  "  Castrucci  Castricanni,"  pages  of 
Bryant's  translation  of  Homer,  Tennyson's 
"Tears,  Idle  Tears,"  Lord  Houghton's  "  I  Wan 
dered  by  the  Brookside,"  Barry  Cornwall's  "  Moth 
er's  Last  Song,"  Sheridan's  "  Clio's  Protest  "  (con- 
taining  the  famous  lines, 

They  write  with  ease  to  show  their  breeding, 
But  easy  writing's  cursed  hard  reading), 

Poe's  sonnet  "  To  Zante,"  Holmes's  "  Last  Leaf," 
Lowell's  "  Zekle's  Courtin'  "  and  a  manuscript 
volume  containing  nearly  all  of  Bayard  Taylor's 
"  Poems  of  the  Orient."  His  library  of  English 
poets  contains  many  now  scarce  first  editions — 
Drayton's  Poems,  1619;  Lord  Sterling's  "  Mon 
archic  Tragedies,"  1602  ;  Brooke's  "  Alaham  Mus- 
tapha,"  1631;  Milton's  Poems,  1645;  the  early 
editions  of  Suckling,  etc. 

The  most  precious  of  all  Mr.  Stoddard's  literary 
relics  is  a  lock  of  light  brown  or  golden  hair — the 
veriest  wisp, — that  came  to  him  from  his  friend 
and  brother  poet  Mr.  George  H.  Boker  of  Phila 
delphia.  Mr.  Boker  had  it  from  Leigh  Hunt's 
American  editor,  S.  Adams  Lee,  to  whom  it  was 
given  by  Hunt  himself.  It  was  "  the  distin 
guished  physician  Dr.  Beatty  "  who  gave  it  to 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  309 

the  English  poet ;  and  it  was  Hoole,  the  trans 
lator  of  Tasso,  who  gave  it  to  Beatty.  The  next 
previous  owner  to  Hoole  was  Dr.  Samuel  John 
son.  Further  back  than  this,  Leigh  Hunt  could 
not  trace  it ;  but  he  believed  it  to  be  a  portion 
of  the  lock  attached  to  a  miniature  portrait  of 
Milton  known  to  have  existed  in  the  time  of 
Addison  and  supposed  to  have  been  in  his  pos 
session.  That  it  came  from  the  august  head  of 
the  poet  of  "  Paradise  Lost "  had  never  been 
doubted  down  to  Dr.  Beatty's  day ;  so  at  least 
wrote  Hunt,  in  a  manuscript  of  which  Mr.  Stod- 
dard  preserves  a  copy,  in  Lee's  handwriting,  in  a 
volume  of  Hunt's  poems  edited  by  that  gentle 
man.  There  is  a  fine  sonnet  of  Hunt's  on  these 
golden  threads,  written  when  they  passed  into 
his  possession ;  and  Keats's  poem,  "  On  Seeing 
a  Lock  of  Milton's  Hair,"  has  made  the  relic 
still  more  memorable.  It  is  smaller  now  than 
it  was  when  these  great  spirits  were  sojourning 
on  earth,  for  Leigh  Hunt  gave  a  part  of  it 
to  Mrs.  Browning.  "  Reverence  these  hairs,  O 
Americans !  (as  indeed  you  will),"  he  wrote,  "  for 
in  them  your  great  Republican  harbinger  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic  appears,  for  the  first  time, 
actually  and  bodily  present  on  the  other  side  of 
it."  A  companion  locket  holds  a  wisp  of  silver 
hairs  from  the  head  of  Washington. 

It  would  be  a  serious  oversight  to  ignore  any 


310  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

member  of  the  little  Stoddard  household — to 
make  no  mention  of  that  gifted  woman  who 
caught  the  contagion  of  writing  from  her  hus 
band,  and  has  won  not  only  his  cordial  "  Well 
done,"  but  the  admiration  of  such  authoritative 
critics  as  Hawthorne  and  Stedman,  to  name  but 
these  two  ;  or  of  that  son  who  is  now  an  only 
child,  and  therefore  trebly  dear  to  both  his 
parents.  Mrs.  Stoddard  is  known  and  admired 
as  a  poet ;  the  bound  volumes  of  Harper  s 
Monthly  bear  abundant  testimony  to  her  skill  as 
a  writer  of  short  stories ;  and  her  powers  as  a 
novelist  are  receiving  fresh  recognition  through 
the  republication,  by  Cassell  &  Co.,  of  "  Two 
Men,"  "  The  Morgesons  "  and  "  Temple  House." 
The  son,  Lorimer,  a  youth  of  twenty-four,  has 
chosen  the  stage  as  his  profession,  and  in  that 
very  popular  piece,  "  The  Henrietta,"  has  made 
his  mark  in  the  character  of  the  young  nobleman. 
In  speaking  of  the  home  of  the  Stoddards,  some 
reference  to  the  long-haired  little  terrier,  CEnone, 
may  be  pardoned.  She  has  been  an  inmate  of 
the  house  for  many  years  ;  and  she  trots  here  and 
there  about  it,  upstairs  and  down,  as  freely  and 
with  as  few  misadventures  as  if  she  were  not 
stone-blind. 

The  blindness  of  GEnone  reminds  me  that  her 
master  (whom  rheumatism  once  robbed  of  the  use 
of  his  right  hand  for  many  years)  is  gradually 


RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD.  311 

losing  the  use  of  his  eyes.  I  found  him  this 
summer,  on  his  return  from  a  few  weeks'  sojourn 
in  the  Adirondacks,  reading  and  writing  with  the 
aid  of  a  powerful  magnifying-glass.  He  said  the 
trip  had  done  him  little  good  in  this  respect ; 
and  the  glare  of  the  sunlight  upon  the  salt  water 
at  Sag  Harbor,  whither  he  was  about  to  repair 
for  the  rest  of  the  season,  was  not  likely  to  prove 
more  beneficial.  This  seashore  town,  where  his 
friend  Julian  Hawthorne  long  since  established 
himself,  has  of  late  years  taken  Mattapoisett's 
place  as  the  Stoddards'  summer  home. 

A  personal  description  of  Mr.  Stoddard  should 
be  unnecessary.  At  this  late  day  few  of  his 
readers  can  be  unfamiliar  with  his  face.  It  has 
been  engraved  more  than  once,  and  printed  not 
only  with  his  collected  poems,  but  in  magazines 
of  wider  circulation  than  the  books  of  any  living 
American  poet.  It  is  not  likely  to  disappoint  the 
admirer  of  his  work,  for  it  is  a  poet's  face,  as  well 
as  a  handsome  one.  The  clear-cut,  regular  feat 
ures  are  almost  feminine  in  their  delicacy ;  but 
in  the  dark  eyes,  now  somewhat  dimmed  though 
full  of  thought  and  feeling,  there  is  a  look  that 
counteracts  any  impression  of  effeminacy  due  to 
the  refinement  of  the  features,  or  the  melodious 
softness  of  the  voice.  The  hair  and  beard  of 
snowy  whiteness  make  a  harmonious  setting  for 
the  poet's  ruddy  countenance.  Though  slightly 


312  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 

bowed,  as  he  steps  forward  to  meet  you  (with 
left  hand  advanced)  Mr.  Stoddard  still  impresses 
you  as  a  man  of  more  than  middle  height.  His 
cordial  though  undemonstrative  greeting  puts  the 
stranger  at  his  ease  at  once ;  for  his  manner  is  as 
gentle  as  his  speech  is  frank. 

JOSEPH  B.  GILDER. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 

IN    HARTFORD 

Until  Mrs.  Stowe's  health  began  to  fail,  twice  a 
day  regularly  she  walked  abroad  for  an  hour  or 
more,  and  between  times  she  was  apt  to  be  more 
or  less  out  of  doors.  The  weather  had  to  be  un 
mistakably  prohibitory  to  keep  her  housed  from 
morning  till  night.  Not  infrequently  her  forenoon 
stroll  took  her  to  the  house  of  her  son,  the  Rev. 
Charles  E.  Stowe,  two  miles  away,  in  the  north 
part  of  the  city.  So  long  as  the  season  admitted 
of  it,  she  inclined  to  get  off  the  pavement  into  the 
fields ;  and  she  was  not  afraid  to  climb  over  or 
under  a  fence.  As  one  would  infer  from  her  writ 
ings,  she  was  extremely  fond  of  wild  flowers,  and 
from  early  spring  to  late  autumn  invariably  came 
iii  with  her  hands  full  of  them.  To  a  friend  who 
met  her  once  on  one  of  her  outings,  she  exhibited 
a  spray  of  leaves,  and  passed  on  with  the  single 
disconsolate  remark,  "  Not  one  flower  can  I  find," 
as  if  she  had  failed  of  her  object.  As  a  general 
thing  she  preferred  to  be  unaccompanied  on  her 
walks.  She  moved  along  at  a  good  pace,  but,  so 
to  speak,  quietly,  with  her  head  bent  somewhat 
forward,  and  at  times  so  wrapped  in  thought  as  to 
pass  without  recognition  people  whom  she  knew, 

3*5 


316         MRS.    HARRIET  BEE  CHER   STOWE. 

even  when  saluted  by  them.  Yet  she  would  often 
pause  to  talk  with  children  whom  she  saw  at  their 
sports,  and  amuse  both  herself  and  them  with 
kindly  inquiries  about  their  affairs — the  game  they 
were  playing  or  what  not.  One  day  she  stopped 
a  little  girl  of  the  writer's  acquaintance,  who  was 
performing  the  then  rather  unfeminine  feat  of  rid 
ing  a  bicycle,  and  had  her  show  how  she  managed 
the  mount  and  the  dismount,  etc.,  while  she  looked 
on  laughing  and  applauding.  It  was  very  much 
her  way,  in  making  her  pedestrian  rounds,  to  lin 
ger  and  watch  workingmen  employed  in  their  va 
rious  crafts,  and  to  enter  into  conversation  with 
them — always  in  a  manner  to  give  them  pleasure. 
She  said  once :  "  I  keep  track  of  all  the  new  houses 
going  up  in  town,  and  I  have  talked  with  the  men 
who  are  building  most  of  them."  A  number  of 
years  ago  her  brother,  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  sent 
her  a  letter  which  he  had  received  from  a  friend 
in  Germany,  condoling  with  him  on  the  supposed 
event  of  her  decease,  a  rumor  of  which  had  some 
how  got  started  in  Europe;  and  this  letter 
afforded  her  no  little  entertainment,  especially  its 
closing  with  the  expression  "  Peace  to  her  ashes. " 
"  I  guess,"  she  observed  with  a  humorous  smile, 
and  using  her  native  dialect,  "  the  gentleman  would 
think  my  ashes  pretty  lively,  if  he  was  here." 
To  what  multitudes  was  her  continued  presence  in 
the  world  she  blessed  a  grateful  circumstance ! 


MRS.    HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWE.         31? 

Mrs.  Stowe  resided  in  Hartford  after  1864,  the 
family  having  removed  thither  from  Andover, 
Massachusetts,  upon  the  termination  of  Prof. 
Stowe's  active  professional  career.  Her  attach 
ment  to  the  city  dated  back  to  her  youth,  when 
she  passed  some  years  there.  It  was  also  the 
home  of  several  of  her  kindred  and  near  friends. 
She  first  lived  in  a  house  built  for  her  after  her 
own  design — a  delightful  house,  therefore.  But 
its  location  proved,  by  and  by,  for  various  rea 
sons,  so  unsatisfactory  that  it  was  given  up ;  and 
after  an  interval,  spent  chiefly  at  her  summer 
place  in  Florida,  the  house  where  she  lived  until 
her  death  in  1896,  was  purchased.  It  is  an 
entirely  modest  dwelling,  of  the  cottage  style, 
and  stands  about  a  mile  west  of  the  Capitol  in 
Forest  Street,  facing  the  east.  The  plot  which 
it  occupies — only  a  few  square  rods  in  extent. — 
is  well  planted  with  shrubbery  (there  is  scarcely 
space  for  trees)  and  is,  of  course,  bright  with 
flowers  in  their  season.  At  the  rear  it  joins  the 
grounds  of  Mark  Twain,  and  is  but  two  minutes' 
walk  distant  from  the  former  home  of  Charles 
Dudley  Warner.  The  interior  of  the  house  is 
plain,  and  of  an  ordinary  plan.  On  the  right,  as 
you  enter,  the  hall  opens  into  a  good-sized  parlor, 
which  in  turn  opens  into  another  back  of  it.  On 
the  left  is  the  dining-room.  In  furnishing  it  is 
altogether  simple,  as  suits  with  its  character,  and 


318          MRS.   HARRIET  BEECH ER  STOWE. 

with  the  moderate  circumstances  of  its  occupants. 
Yet  it  is  a  thoroughly  attractive  and  charming 
home ;  for  it  bears  throughout,  in  every  detail  of 
arrangement,  the  signature  of  that  refined  taste 
which  has  the  art  and  secret  of  giving  an  air  of 
grace  to  whatever  it  touches.  The  pictures, 
which  are  obviously  heart  selections,  are  skilful 
ly  placed,  and  seem  to  extend  to  the  caller  a 
friendly  'greeting.  Among  them  are  a  number  of 
flower-pieces  (chiefly  wild)  by  Mrs.  Stowe's  own 
hand. 

While  there  are  abundant  indications  of  literary 
culture  visible,  there  is  little  to  denote  the  abode 
of  one  of  the  most  famous  authors  of  the  age. 
Still,  by  one  and  another  token,  an  observant 
stranger  would  soon  discover  whose  house  he  was 
in,  and  be  reminded  of  the  world-wide  distinction 
her  genius  won,  and  of  that  great  service  of 
humanity  with  which  her  name  is  forever  iden 
tified.  He  would,  for  instance,  remark  on  its 
pedestal  in  the  bow-window,  a  beautiful  bronze 
statuette,  by  Cumberworth,  called  "  The  African 
Woman  of  the  Fountain  "  ;  and  on  an  easel  in  the 
back  parlor  a  lovely  engraving  of  the  late  Duchess 
of  Sutherland  and  her  daughter — a  gift  from  her 
son,  the  present  Duke  of  that  name — subscribed : 
"  Mrs.  Stowe,  with  the  Duke  of  Sutherland's  kind 
regards,  1869."  Should  he  look  into  a  low  oaken 
case  standing  in  the  hall,  he  would  find  there  the 


MRS.   HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWE.         3*9 

twenty-six  folio  volumes  of  the  "  Affectionate  and 
Christian  Address  of  Many  Thousands  of  Women 
in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  to  their  Sisters  of 
the  United  States  of  America,"  pleading  the 
cause  of  the  slave,  and  signed  with  over  half  a 
million  names,  which  was  delivered  to  Mrs  Stowe 
in  person,  at  a  notable  gathering  at  Stafford  House, 
in  England,  in  1853;  and  with  it  similar  addresses 
from  the  citizens  of  Leeds,  Glasgow  and  Edin 
burgh,  presented  at  about  the  same  time.  The 
house,  indeed,  is  a  treasury  of  such  relics,  testi 
monials  of  reverence  and  gratitude,  trophies  of 
renown  from  many  lands — enough  to  furnish  a 
museum — all  of  the  highest  historic  interest  and 
value ;  but  for  the  most  part  they  are  out  of 
sight.  Hid  away  in  closets  and  seldom-opened 
book-cases  is  a  priceless  library  of  "  Uncle  Tom  " 
literature,  including  copies  of  most  of  its  thirty- 
seven  translations.  Somewhere  is  Mrs.  Stowe's 
copy  of  the  first  American  edition,  with  the  first 
sheet  of  the  original  manuscript  (which,  however, 
was  not  written  first)  pasted  on  the  fly-leaf,  show 
ing  that  three  several  beginnings  were  made  be 
fore  the  setting  of  the  introductory  scene  was 
fixed  upon. 

There  are  relics,  also,  of  a  more  private  sort. 
For  example,  a  smooth  stone  of  two  or  three 
pounds  weight,  and  a  sketch  or  study  on  it  by 
Ruskin,  made  at  a  hotel  on  Lake  Neufchatel, 


320        MRS.   HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

where  he  and  Mrs.  Stowe  chanced  to  meet;  he 
having  fetched  it  in  from  the  lake-shore  one  even 
ing  and  painted  it  in  her  presence  to  illustrate  his 
meaning  in  something  he  had  said.  One  of  her 
most  prized  possessions  was  a  golden  chain  of  ten 
links,  which,  on  occasion  of  the  gathering  at  Staf 
ford  House  that  has  been  referred  to,  the  Duch 
ess  of  Sutherland  took  from  her  own  arm  and 
clasped  upon  Mrs.  Stowe's,  saying  :  "This  is  the 
memorial  of  a  chain  which  we  trust  will  soon  be 
broken."  On  several  of  the  ten  links  were  en 
graved  the  great  dates  in  the  annals  of  eman 
cipation  in  England ;  and  the  hope  was  expressed 
that  she  would  live  to  add  to  them  other  dates  of 
like  import  in  the  progress  of  liberty  this  side  the 
Atlantic.  That  was  in  1853.  Twelve  years  later 
every  link  had  its  inscription,  and  the  record  was 
complete. 

It  was  difficult  to  realize,  as  one  was  shown 
memorials  of  this  kind,  that  the  fragile,  gentle- 
voiced  little  lady,  who  stood  by  explaining  them, 
was  herself  the  heroine  in  chief  of  the  sublime 
conflict  they  recall.  For  a  more  unpretending 
person  every  way  than  she  was,  or  one  seeming  to 
be  more  unconscious  of  gifts  and  works  of  genius, 
or  of  a  great  part  acted  in  life,  it  is  not  possible  to 
imagine.  In  her  quiet  home,  attended  by  her 
daughters,  surrounded  by  respect  and  affection, 
filled  with  the  divine  calm  of  the  Christian  faith, 


MRS.    HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWE.         3** 

in  perfect  charity  with  all  mankind,  the  most  cele 
brated  of  American  women  passed  the  tranquil 
evening  of  her  days.  She  would  often  be  found 
seated  at  the  piano,  her  hand  straying  over  its 
keys — that  hand  that  was  clothed  with  such  mighty 
power, — singing  softly  to  herself  those  hymns 
of  Gospel  hope  which  were  dear  to  her  heart 
through  all  her  earthly  pilgrimage,  alike  in  cloud 
and  in  sunshine.  During  her  last  years  she  almost 
wholly  laid  her  pen  aside,  her  last  work  having 
been  the  preparation,  with  her  son's  assistance,  of 
a  brief  memoir  of  her  honored  husband,  who  passed 
away  in  1886. 

There  continued  to  come  to  her  in  retirement, 
often  from  distant  and  exalted  sources,  messages 
of  honor  and  remembrance,  which  she  welcomed 
with  equal  pleasure  and  humility.  Among  them 
was  a  letter  from  Mr.  Gladstone,  inspired  by 
his  reading  "The  Minister's  Wooing"  for  the 
first  time,  and  written  in  the  midst  of  his  pub 
lic  cares.  What  satisfaction  it  gave  her  may 
be  judged  by  an  extract  from  it.  After  telling 
her  that,  though  he  had  long  meant  to  read  the 
book,  he  had  not  found  an  opportunity  to  do  so 
till  a  month  or  two  before,  he  says :  "  It  was 
only  then  that  I  acquired  a  personal  acquaintance 
with  the  beautiful  and  noble  picture  of  Puritan 
life  which  in  that  work  you  have  exhibited,  upon 
a  pattern  felicitous  beyond  example,  so  far  as  my 


322        MRS.  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

knowledge  goes.  I  really  know  not  among  four 
or  five  of  the  characters  (though  I  suppose  Mary 
ought  to  be  preferred  as  nearest  to  the  image  of 
our  Saviour),  to  which  to  give  the  crown.  But 
under  all  circumstances  and  apart  from  the  great 
est  claims,  I  must  reserve  a  little  corner  of  admi 
ration  for  Cerinthy  Ann." 

JOSEPH  H.  TWICHELL. 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


323 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

IN    HARTFORD 

Three-quarters  of  a  mile  west  of  the  railway  sta 
tion,  in  an  angle  which  Farmington  Avenue  makes 
with  Forest  Street,  and  where  the  town  looks  out 
into  the  country,  lived  Mr.  Warner,  with  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe  and  Mark  Twain  for  his  near  neigh 
bors.  The  houses  where  they  once  lived  are  but  a 
stone's  throw  apart.  No  stones  were  thrown  be 
tween  them,  however,  the  three  authors  having  been 
not  on  stone-throwing  terms,  but  very  far  otherwise. 
Mr.  Warner's  house  is  a  spacious,  attractive  dwell 
ing,  of  the  colonial  style.  It  stands,  unenclosed, 
several  rods  back  from  the  street,  in  a  grove  of  noble 
chestnuts,  having  no  other  grounds  nor  needing 
any  other.  Close  behind  it,  at  the  foot  of  a  steep, 
bushy  bank,  sweeps  the  bend  of  a  considerable 
stream. 

The  Garden,  which  Mr.  Warner  has  made  so 
famous,  will  be  looked  for  in  vain  on  the  premises. 
Indoors,  indeed,  the  sage  "  Calvin  "  is  found  en 
joying,  on  a  mantel,  such  immortality  as  a  bronze 
bust  can  confer;  but  nowhere  the  Garden.  It 
pertained  to  another  house,  where  Mr.  Warner 

325 


326       CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 

lived  when  "  My  Summer  in  a  Garden  "  was 
written  ;  the  fireside  of  which,  also,  is  celebrated 
in  his  "  Back-log  Studies,"  to  not  a  few  of  his 
readers  the  most  delightful  of  his  books, — a  house 
dear  to  the  recollection  of  many  a  friend  and 
guest.  While  it  is  true  that  Mr.  Warner's  experi 
ment  of  horticulture  was,  in  the  time  of  it,  some 
thing  of  a  reality,  its  main  success,  it  may  be 
owned  without  disparagement,  was  literary ;  and 
with  the  ripening  of  its  literary  product,  the  im 
pulse  to  it  expired. 

As  one  would  anticipate,  the  interior  of  Mr. 
Warner's  house  is  genial  and  homelike.  A  cheer 
ful  drawing-room  opens  into  a  wide,  bright  music- 
room,  making,  with  it,  one  shapely  apartment  of 
generous,  hospitable  proportions.  The  furnishing 
is  simple,  but  in  every  item  pleasing.  The  hand 
of  modern  decorative  art  is  there,  though  under 
rational  restraint.  A  chimney-piece  of  Oriental 
design  rises  above  the  fireplace  of  the  music-room 
set  with  antique  tiles  brought  by  Mr.  Warner 
from  Damascus.  Other  spoils  of  travel  are  dis 
played  here  and  there,  with  pictures  and  engrav 
ings  of  the  best.  In  the  nook  of  a  bow-window 
is  a  lovely  cast  of  the  Venus  of  Milo,  which,  when 
it  was  made  a  birthday  present  in  the  family,  was 
inscribed  "  The  Venus  of  my-h'eye."  The  house 
is  full  of  books.  Every  part  of  it  is  more  or  less 
of  a  library.  Laden  shelves  flank  the  landings  of 


CHARLES  DUDLEY   WARNER.  327 

the  broad  stairway,  and  so  on  all  the  way  up  to  the 
work-room  in  the  third  story,  where  the  statuette 
of  Thackeray  on  our  author's  table  seems  to  sur 
vey  with  amusement  the  accumulated  miscellane 
ous  mass  of  literature  stacked  and  piled  around. 
Upon  any  volume  of  this  collection  Mr.  Warner 
could  lay  his  hand  in  an  instant — when  he  found 
where  it  was.  This  opulence  of  books  was  partly 
due  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Warner  was  a  newspaper 
editor,  and  in  that  capacity  had  the  general  issue 
of  the  press  precipitated  upon  him.  Not  that  he 
kept  it  all.  The  theological  works  and  Biblical 
commentaries  mostly  went  to  the  minister.  And 
there  are  a  score  of  children  about,  whose  juven 
ile  libraries  are  largely  made  up  of  contributions 
from  "  Uncle  Charley."  His  home  was  a  thor 
oughly  charming  one  in  every  way,  and  whoever 
may  have  had  the  pleasure  of  an  evening  there 
must  have  come  away  wishing  that  he  might  write 
an  article  on  the  mistress  of  that  house. 

Here  Mr.  Warner  spent  his  forenoons  and 
did  his  literary  work.  He  was  very  industrious, 
and  was  an  unusually  rapid  writer.  Some  of  his 
most  enjoyed  sketches  that  are  apt  to  be  quoted 
as  specimens  of  his  best  work,  peculiarly  exhibit 
ing  his  delicate  and  amiable  humor  and  the  char 
acteristic  merits  of  his  style,  were  finished  at  a 
sitting.  In  the  afternoon  he  was  "  down  town  " 
on  duty  as  editor-in-chief  of  The  Hartford  Courant 


328  CHARLES  DUDLEY   WARNER. 

— the  oldest  newspaper  in  continuous  existence  in 
this  country,  having  been  founded  in  1764.  His 
associate  editor-in-chief  was  Gen.  Joseph  R. 
Hawley,  of  the  United  States  Senate.  The  main 
pursuit  of  Mr.  Warner's  life  was  journalism. 
His  native  turn  was  literary.  The  ink  began  to 
stir  in  his  veins  when  he  was  a  boy.  In  his  youth 
he  was  a  contributor  to  the  old  Knickerbocker  and 
Putnam's  Magazine.  But  circumstances  did  not 
permit  him  to  follow  his  bent.  After  graduating 
at  college,  he  engaged  for  awhile  in  railroad  sur 
veying  in  the  West ;  then  studied,  and  for  a  short 
time  practised,  law  ;  but  finally,  at  the  call  of  his 
friend  Hawley,  came  to  Hartford  and  settled 
down  to  the  work  of  an  editor,  devoting  his 
whole  strength  to  it,  with  marked  success  from 
the  outset,  and  so  continued  for  the  years  before, 
during  and  after  the  War,  supposing  that  as  a 
journalist  he  had  found  his  place  and  his  career. 
His  editorial  work,  however,  was  such  as  to  give 
him  a  distinctly  literary  reputation  ;  and  a  share 
of  it  was  literary  in  form  and  motive.  People 
used  to  preserve  his  Christmas  stories  and 
letters  of  travel  in  their  scrap-books.  The 
chapters  of  "  My  Summer  in  a  Garden "  were 
originally  a  series  of  articles  written  for  his  paper, 
without  a  thought  of  further  publication.  It  was 
in  response  to  numerous  suggestions  coming  to 
him  from  various  quarters  that  they  were  made 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER.      329 

into  a  book.  The  extraordinary  favor  with  which 
the  little  volume  was  received  was  a  surprise  to 
Mr.  Warner,  who  insisted  that  there  was  nothing 
in  it  better  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
write.  He  was  much  disposed  to  view  the  hit  he 
had  made  as  an  accident,  and  to  doubt  if  it  would 
lead  to  anything  further  in  the  line  of  authorship. 
But  he  was  mistaken.  The  purveyors  of  litera 
ture  were  after  him  at  once.  That  was  in  1870. 
Since  then  his  published  works  have  grown  to  a 
considerable  list. 

His  stock  of  material  was  ample  and  was  con 
stantly  replenished.  His  mind  was  eminently  of 
the  inquiring  and  acquisitive  order.  His  travels 
were  fruitful  of  large  information  to  him.  He  re 
turned  from  his  journey  to  the  East,  which  pro 
duced  "  My  Winter  on  the  Nile "  and  "  In  the 
Levant,"  with  a  knowledge  of  Egyptian  art  and 
history  such  as  few  travellers  gain,  and  with  a  rare 
insight  into  the  intricate  ins  and  outs  of  the  East 
ern  question,  past  and  present.  Though  not  an 
orator,  hardly  a  season  passed  that  he  was  not  in 
vited  to  give  an  address  at  some  college  anniver 
sary — an  invitation  which  he  several  times  accept 
ed.  He  once  also  delivered,  in  various  colleges,  a 
course  of  lectures  of  great  interest  and  value,  on 
"The  Relation  of  Literature  to  Life."  He  was 
an  enthusiastic  believer  in  the  classic  culture,  and 
has  repeatedly  written  and  spoken  in  its  defense. 


330  CHARLES  DUDLEY    WARNER. 

His  humor  was  in  his  grain,  and  was  the  humor  of  a 
man  of  very  deep  convictions  and  earnest  charac 
ter.  Mr.  Warner  was  highly  esteemed  among  his 
fellow-citizens,  and  was  often  called  to  serve  in  one 
public  capacity  or  another.  He  was  for  a  number 
of  years  a  member  of  the  Park  Commission  of  the 
city  of  Hartford ;  and  he  at  one  time  rendered  a 
report  to  the  Connecticut  Legislature,  as  chairman 
of  a  special  Prison  Commission  appointed  by  the 
State.  He  was  a  communicant  in  the  Congrega 
tional  Church,  and  until  his  death  in  1900,  a  con 
stant  attendant  on  public  worship. 

Mr.  Warner  was  a  good-looking  man ;  tall,  spare, 
and  erect  in  frame,  with  a  strong  countenance  in 
dicative  of  thought  and  refinement.  His  head 
was  capacious,  his  forehead  high  and  clear,  and  the 
kindly  eyes  behind  his  eye-glasses  were  noticeably 
wide-open.  He  was  remarked  anywhere  as  a  per 
son  of  decidedly  striking  appearance.  The  years 
powdered  his  full  beard  and  abundant  clustering 
hair,  but  he  walked  with  a  quick,  energetic  step, 
with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  pushing  on  as  if 
he  were  after  something.  In  going  back  and  forth 
daily  between  his  house  and  his  editorial  room  in 
the  Courant  Building,  he  disdained  the  street  rail 
way  service,  habitually  making  the  trip  of  some 
thing  over  a  mile  each  way  afoot,  in  all  weathers. 
His  pedestrian  powers  were  first-rate,  and  he  took 
great  pleasure  in  exerting  them.  He  liked  to 


CHARLES  DUDLEY    WARNER.  331 

shoulder  a  knapsack  and  go  off  on  a  week's  tramp 
through  the  Catskill  or  White  Mountains,  and  who 
ever  went  with  him  was  sure  of  enough  exercise. 
He  was  fond  of  exploration,  and  once  made,  in  suc 
cessive  seasons,  two  quite  extensive  horseback  ex 
cursions — with  Prof.  T.  R.  Lounsbury,  of  the 
Sheffield  Scientific  School  at  Yale,  for  his  com 
panion — through  the  unfrequented  parts  of  Penn 
sylvania,  Tennessee  and  North  Carolina.  Of  the 
second  of  these  excursions  he  prepared  an  account 
in  a  series  of  articles  for  The  Atlantic.  He  had 
the  keenest  relish  for  outdoor  life,  especially  in  the 
woods.  His  favorite  vacation  resort  was  the  Adi 
rondack  region,  where,  first  and  last,  he  has  camped 
out  a  great  many  weeks.  His  delectable  little  book, 
"  In  the  Wilderness,"  came  of  studies  of  human 
and  other  nature  there  made.  He  was  an  expert 
and  patient  angler,  but  enjoyed  nothing  so  much 
as  following  all  day  a  forest  trail  through  some 
before-unvisited  tract,  halting  to  bivouac  under  the 
open  sky,  wherever  overtaken  by  night.  He  was 
easily  companionable  with  anybody  he  chanced  to 
be  with,  and  under  such  circumstances,  while  lux 
uriating  around  the  camp-fire,  smoking  his  mode 
rate  pipe,  would  be  not  unlikely  to  keep  his  guide 
up  half  the  night,  drawing  him  out  and  getting  at 
his  views  and  notions  on  all  sorts  of  subjects. 
JOSEPH  H.  TWICHELL. 


WALT  WHITMAN 


333 


WALT  WHITMAN 

IN    CAMDEN 

It  is  not  a  little  difficult  to  write  an  article 
about  Walt  Whitman's  home,  for  it  was  once  hu 
morously  said  by  himself  that  he  had  all  his  life 
possessed  a  home  only  in  the  sense  that  a  ship  pos 
sesses  one.  Hardly,  indeed,  till  the  year  1884 
could  he  be  called  the  occupant  of  such  a  definite 
place,  even  the  kind  of  one  I  shall  presently  de 
scribe.  To  illustrate  his  own  half -jocular  remark 
as  just  given,  and  to  jot  down  a  few  facts  about 
the  poet  in  Camden  in  the  home  where  he  died,  is 
my  only  purpose  in  this  article.  I  have  decided  to 
steer  clear  of  any  criticism  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass," 
and  confine  myself  to  his  condition  and  a  brief 
outline  of  his  personal  history.  I  should  also 
like  to  dwell  a  moment  on  what  may  be  called  the 
peculiar  outfit  or  schooling  he  chose,  to  fulfill  his 
mission  as  poet,  according  to  his  own  ideal. 

In  the  observation  of  the  drama  of  human 
nature — if,  indeed,  "all  the  world's  a  stage" — 
Walt  Whitman  had  rare  advantages  as  auditor, 

335 


336  WALT  WHITMAN. 

from  the  beginning.  Several  of  his  earlier  years, 
embracing  the  age  of  fifteen  to  twenty-one,  were 
spent  in  teaching  country  schools  in  Queens  and 
Suffolk  counties,  New  York,  following  the  quaint 
old  fashion  of  "  boarding  round,"  that  is,  moving 
from  house  to  house  and  farm  to  farm,  among  high 
and  low,  living  a  few  days  alternately  at  each,  un 
til  the  quarter  was  up,  and  then  commencing  over 
again.  His  occupation,  for  a  long  period,  as  print 
er,  with  frequent  traveling,  is  to  be  remembered ; 
also  as  carpenter.  Quite  a  good  deal  of  his  life 
was  passed  in  boarding-houses  and  hotels.  The 
three  years  in  the  Secession  War  of  course  play 
a  marked  part.  He  never  made  any  long  sea-voy 
ages,  but  for  years  at  one  period  (1846-60)  went 
out  in  their  boats,  sometimes  for  a  week  at  a 
time,  with  the  New  York  Bay  pilots,  among  whom 
he  was  a  great  favorite.  In  1 848-9  his  location  was 
in  New  Orleans,  with  occasional  sojourns  in  the 
other  Gulf  States  besides  Louisiana.  From  1865 
to '73  he  lived  in  Washington.  Born  in  1819,  his 
life  through  childhood  and  as  a  young  and  middle- 
aged  man — that  is,  up  to  1862 — was  mainly  spent, 
with  a  few  intervals  of  Western  and  Southern 
jaunts,  on  his  native  Long  Island,  mostly  in 
Brooklyn.  At  that  date,  aged  forty-two,  he  went 
down  to  the  field  of  war  in  Virginia,  and  for  the 
three  subsequent  years  he  was  actively  engaged 
as  volunteer  attendant  and  nurse  on  the  battle- 


WALT  WHITMAN.  337 

fields,  to  the  Southern  soldiers  equally  with  the 
Northern,  and  among  the  wounded  in  the  army 
hospitals.  He  was  prostrated  by  hospital  ma 
laria  and  ''inflammation  of  the  veins "  in  1864, 
but  recovered.  He  worked  "  on  his  own  hook," 
had  indomitable  strength,  health,  and  activity, 
was  on  the  move  night  and  day,  not  only  till  the 
official  close  of  the  Secession  struggle,  but  for  a 
long  time  afterward,  for  there  was  a  vast  legacy 
of  suffering  soldiers  left  when  the  contest  was 
over.  He  was  permanently  appointed  under 
President  Lincoln,  in  1865,  to  a  respectable  office 
in  the  Attorney-General's  department.  (This  fol 
lowed  his  removal  from  a  temporary  clerkship  in 
the  Indian  Bureau  of  the  Interior  Department. 
Secretary  Harlan  dismissed  him  from  that  post 
specifically  for  being  the  author  of  "  Leaves  of 
Grass.")  He  worked  on  for  some  time  in  the 
Attorney-General's  office,  and  was  promoted,  but 
the  seeds  of  the  hospital  malaria  seem  never  to 
have  been  fully  eradicated.  He  was  at  last 
struck  down,  quite  suddenly,  by  a  severe  paralytic 
shock  (left  hemiplegia),  from  which — after  some 
weeks — he  was  slowly  recovering,  when  he  lost 
by  death  his  mother  and  a  sister.  Soon  fol 
lowed  two  additional  shocks  of  paralysis,  though 
slighter  than  the  first.  Summer  had  now  com 
menced  at  Washington,  and  his  doctor  impera 
tively  ordered  the  sick  man  an  entire  change  of 


33^  WALT    WHITMAN. 

scene — the  mountains  or  the  sea- shore.  Whit 
man  accordingly  left  Washington,  destined  for 
the  New  Jersey  or  Long  Island  coast,  but  at  Phil 
adelphia  found  himself  too  ill  to  proceed  any  far 
ther.  He  was  taken  over  to  Camden,  and  lived 
there  until  his  death  in  1892.  It  is  from  this  point 
that  I  knew  him  intimately,  and  to  my  household, 
wife  and  family,  he  was  an  honored  and  most  cher 
ished  guest. 

I  must  forbear  expanding  on  the  poet's  career 
these  years,  only  noting  that  during  them  (1880) 
occurred  the  final  completion  of  u  Leaves  of  Grass," 
the  object  of  his  life.  The  house  in  which  he 
lived  is  a  little  old-fashioned  frame  structure, 
situated  about  gun-shot  from  the  Delaware  River, 
on  a  clean,  quiet,  democratic  street.  This 
" shanty,"  as  he  called  it,  was  purchased  by  the 
poet  for  $2000 — two-thirds  being  paid  in  cash. 
In  it  he  occupied  the  second  floor.  I  commenced 
by  likening  his  home  to  that  of  a  ship,  and  the 
comparison  might  go  further.  Though  larger 
than  any  vessel's  cabin,  Walt  Whitman's  room, 
at  328  Mickle  Street,  Camden,  had  all  the 
rudeness,  simplicity,  and  free-and-easy  character 
of  the  quarters  of  some  old  sailor.  In  the  good- 
sized,  three-windowed  apartment,  20  by  20  feet, 
or  over,  there  were  a  wood  stove,  a  bare  board 
floor  of  narrow  planks,  a  comfortable  bed,  divers 
big  and  little  boxes,  a  good  gas  lamp,  two 


WALT  WHITMAN.  339 

big  tables,  a  few  old  uncushioned  seats,  and  lots 
of  pegs  and  hooks  and  shelves.  Hung  or  tacked 
on  the  walls  were  pictures,  those  of  his  father, 
mother  and  sisters  holding  the  places  of  honor,  a 
portrait  of  a  sweetheart  of  long  ago,  a  large  print 
of  Osceola  the  Seminole  chief  (given  to  Whitman 
many  years  since  by  Catlin  the  artist),  some  rare 
old  engravings  by  Strange,  and  "  Banditti  Re 
galing,"  by  Mortimer.  Heaps  of  books,  manu 
scripts,  memoranda,  scissorings,  proof-sheets, 
pamphlets,  newspapers,  old  and  new  magazines, 
mysterious-looking  literary  bundles  tied  up  with 
stout  strings,  lay  about  the  floor  here  and  there. 
Off  against  a  back  wall  loomed  a  mighty  trunk 
having  double  locks  and  bands  of  iron — such  a 
receptacle  as  comes  over  sea  with  the  foreign 
emigrants,  and  you  in  New  York  may  have  seen 
hoisted  by  powerful  tackle  from  the  hold  of  some 
Hamburg  ship.  On  the  main  table  more  books, 
some  of  them  evidently  old-timers,  a  Bible, 
several  Shakspeares, — a  nook  devoted  to  transla 
tions  of  Homer  and  y£schylus  and  the  other 
Greek  poets  and  tragedians,  with  Felton's  and 
Symonds's  books  on  Greece, — a  collection  of  the 
works  of  Fauriel  and  Ellis  on  mediaeval  poetry, — 
a  well-thumbed  volume  (his  companion,  off  and 
on,  for  fifty  years)  of  Walter  Scott's  "  Border 
Minstrelsy," — Tennyson,  Ossian,  Burns,  Omar 
Khayyam,  all  miscellaneously  together.  Whit- 


340  IV ALT  WHITMAN. 

man's  stalwart  form  itself  luxuriated  in  a  curious, 
great  cane-seat  chair,  with  posts  and  rungs  like 
ship's  spars ;  altogether  the  most  imposing,  heavy- 
timbered,  broad-armed  and  broad-bottomed  edi 
fice  of  the  kind  possible.  It  was  the  Christmas 
gift  of  the  young  son  and  daughter  of  Thomas 
Donaldson,  of  Philadelphia,  and  was  specially 
made  for  the  poet. 

Let  me  round  off  with  an  opinion  or  two,  the 
result  of  my  many  years'  acquaintance.  (If  I 
slightly  infringe  the  rule  laid  down  at  the  begin 
ning,  to  attempt  no  literary  criticism,  I  hope  the 
reader  will  excuse  it.)  Both  Walt  Whitman's 
book  and  personal  character  need  to  be  studied  a 
long  time  and  in  the  mass,  and  are  not  to  be 
gauged  by  custom.  I  never  knew  a  man  who — 
for  all  he  took  an  absorbing  interest  in  politics, 
literature,  and  what  is  called  "the  world" — 
seemed  to  be  so  poised  on  himself  alone.  Dr. 
Drinkard,  the  Washington  physician  who  at 
tended  him  in  his  paralysis,  wrote  to  the  Phila 
delphia  doctor  into  whose  hands  the  case  passed, 
saying  among  other  things:  "  In  his  bodily 
organism,  and  in  his  constitution,  tastes  and 
habits,  Whitman  is  the  most  natural  man  I  have 
ever  met."  The  primary  foundation  of  the 
poet's  character,  at  the  same  time,  was  certainly 
spiritual.  Helen  Price,  who  knew  him  for  fifteen 
years,  pronounces  him  (in  Dr.  Bucke's  book)  the 


WALT    WHITMAN.  34* 

most  essentially  religious  person  she  ever  knew. 
On  this  foundation  was  built  up,  layer  by  layer, 
the  rich,  diversified,  concrete  experience  of  his 
life,  from  its  earliest  years.  Then  his  aim  and 
ideal  were  not  the  technical  literary  ones.  His 
strong  individuality,  wilfulness,  audacity,  with 
his  scorn  of  convention  and  rote,  unquestionably 
carried  him  far  outside  the  regular  metes  and 
bounds.  No  wonder  there  are  some  who  refuse 
to  consider  his  "Leaves"  as  "literature."  It  is 
perhaps  only  because  he  was  brought  up  a  printer, 
and  worked  during  his  early  years  as  newspaper 
and  magazine  writer,  that  he  put  his  expression  in 
typographical  form,  and  made  a  regular  book  of  it, 
with  lines,  leaves  and  binding. 

During  his  last  years  the  poet,  who  was  almost 
seventy-three  years  old  when  he  died,  was  in  a 
state  of  half -paralysis.  He  got  out  of  doors  regu 
larly  in  fair  weather,  much  enjoyed  the  Delaware 
River,  was  a  great  frequenter  of  the  Camden  and 
Philadelphia  Ferry,  and  was  occasionally  seen 
sauntering  along  Chestnut  or  Market  Streets  in  the 
latter  city.  He  had  a  curious  sort  of  public  socia 
bility,  talking  with  black  and  white,  high  and  low, 
male  and  female,  old  and  young,  of  all  grades. 
He  gave  a  word  or  two  of  friendly  recognition,  or 
a  nod  or  smile,  to  each.  Yet  he  was  by  no  means 
a  marked  talker  or  logician  anywhere.  I  know  an 
old  book-stand  man  who  always  spoke  of  him  as 


342  WALT   WHITMAN. 

Socrates.  But  in  one  respect  the  likeness  was  en 
tirely  deficient.  Whitman  never  argued,  disputed, 
or  held  or  invited  a  cross- questioning  bout  with 
any  human  being. 

Through  his  paralysis,  poverty,  the  embezzle 
ment  of  book-agents  (1874-1876),  the  incredible 
slanders  and  misconstructions  that  followed  him 
through  life,  and  the  quite  complete  failure  of  his 
book  from  a  worldly  and  financial  point  of  view, 
his  splendid  fund  of  personal  equanimity  and  good 
spirits  remained  inexhaustible,  and  was  to  the  end 
of  his  life  amid  bodily  helplessness  and  a  most 
meagre  income,  vigorous  and  radiant  as  ever. 

GEORGE  SELWYN. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


343 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

AT    AMESBURY 

Nearly  all  the  likenesses  of  Mr.  Whittier  with 
which  the  present  public  is  familiar,  represent  an 
aged  man,  albeit  with  a  fire  flashing  in  the  eye  and 
illuminating  the  countenance,  like  that  fire  which 
underlies  the  snows  of  Hecla.  But  if,  after  hav 
ing  passed  eighty,  his  face  was  still  so  strong  and 
radiant,  in  his  youth  it  must  have  had  a  singular 
beauty,  and  he  kept  until  the  last  that  eye  of  the 
Black  Bachelder,  a  glint  of  which  was  to  be  seen  in 
the  eye  of  Daniel  Webster,  and  possibly,  tradition 
says,  in  that  of  Hawthorne  and  of  Gushing.  At 
any  rate,  he  showed  a  fair  inheritance  of  the 
strength  of  will  and  purpose  of  that  strange  hero 
of  song  and  romance,  his  Bachelder  ancestor. 

But  other  strains,  as  interesting  as  the  old 
preacher's,  are  to  be  found  in  Whittier's  ancestry. 
One  of  his  grandmothers  was  a  Greenleaf,  whence 
his  second  name,  and  she  is  said  to  have  been 
descended  from  a  Huguenot  family  of  the  name 
of  Feuillevert,  who  translated  their  name  on 
reaching  our  shores  (as  the  custom  still  is  with 

345 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

many  of  our  French  and  Canadian  settlers,)to 
Greenleaf.  The  poet  himself  says : 

The  name  the  Gallic  exile  bore, 
St.  Malo,  from  thy  ancient  mart, 

Became  upon  our  western  shore 
Greenleaf,  for  Feuillevert. 

To  the  artistic  imagination,  that  likes  in  every 
thing  a  reason  for  its  being,  there  is  something 
satisfactory  in  the  thought  of  Huguenot  blood  in 
Whittier's  veins ;  and  one  sees  something  more 
than  coincidence  in  the  fact  that  on  the  Green- 
leaf  coat-of-arms  is  both  a  warrior's  helmet  and  a 
dove  bearing  an  olive-leaf  in  its  mouth.  Among 
the  Greenleafs  was  one  of  Cromwell's  Lieuten 
ants  ;  and  thus  on  two  sides  we  find  our  martial 
poet  born  of  people  who  suffered  for  conscience* 
sake,  as  he  himself  did  for  full  forty  years  of  his 
manhood.  The  scion  of  such  a  race — how  could 
he  pursue  any  other  path  than  that  which 
opened  before  him  to  smite  Armageddon;  and 
yet  the  grandson  of  Thomas  Whittier,  of  Haver- 
hill,  who  refused  the  protection  of  the  block 
house,  and,  faithful  to  his  tenets,  had  the  red 
man  to  friend,  in  the  days  when  the  war-whoop 
heralded  massacre  to  right  and  left — the  grand 
son  of  this  old  Quaker,  we  say,  must  have  felt 
some  strange  stirrings  of  spirit  against  spirit, 
within  him,  as  the  man  of  peace  contended  with 
the  man  of  war,  and  the  man  of  war  blew  out 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHIT  TIER.  347 

strains  before  which  the  towers  of  slavery's  dark 
fortress  fell.  For  Whittier  was  not  only  the 
trumpeter  of  the  Abolitionists,  in  those  dark  but 
splendid  days  of  fighting  positive  and  tangible 
wrong:  he  was  the  very  trumpet  itself,  and  he 
must  have  felt  sometimes  that  the  breath  of  the 
Lord  blew  through  him. 

They  are  terrible  days  to  look  back  upon,  the 
period  of  that  long,  fierce  struggle  beneath  a 
cloud  of  obloquy  and  outrage  ;  but  to  those  who 
lived  in  that  cloud  it  was  lined  with  light,  and  in 
all  our  sorrows  there  was  the  joy  of  struggle  and 
of  brotherhood,  of  eloquence  and  poetry  and 
song,  and  the  greater  joy  yet  of  knowing  that  all 
the  forces  of  the  universe  must  be  fighting  on  the 
side  of  right. 

The  old  homestead  where  Whittier  was  born, 
in  1807,  is  still  standing,  and  although  built  more 
than  two  hundred  years  ago,  it  is  in  good  con 
dition.  It  is  on  a  high  table-land,  surrounded 
by  what  in  the  late  fall  and  winter  seems  a  dreary 
landscape.  Carlyle's  Craigenputtock,  the  Burns 
cottage,  the  Whittier  homestead,  all  have  a  cer 
tain  correlation,  each  of  them  the  home  of  genius 
and  of  comparative  poverty,  and  each  so  bleak 
and  bare  as  to  send  the  imagination  of  the  dwel 
lers  out  on  strong  wings  to  lovelier  scenes.  Lit 
tle  boxes  and  paper-weights  are  made  from  the 
boards  of  the  garret-floor  of  the  Whittier  home- 


348  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

stead,  as  they  are  from  the  Burns  belongings; 
and  twigs  of  the  overshadowing  elm  are  varnished 
and  sold  for  pen-holders.  But  the  whole  house 
would  have  to  go  to  the  lathe  to  meet  the  de 
mand,  if  it  were  answered  generally,  for  it  is  the 
old  farmhouse  celebrated  by  "  Snowbound,"  our 
one  national  idyll,  the  perfect  poem  of  New  Eng 
land  winter  life.  An  allusion  to  that  strange  and 
powerful  character,  Harriet  Livermore,  in  this 
poem,  has  brought  down  upon  the  poet's  head 
the  wrath  of  one  of  her  collateral  descendants, 
who  has  written  a  book  to  prove  that  nothing 
which  was  said  of  that  fantastic  being  in  her  life 
time  was  true,  and  that  so  far  from  quarreling 
with  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  as  to  which  of  them 
was  to  ride  beside  the  Lord  on  his  reentry  into 
Jerusalem,  she  never  even  saw  Lady  Hester. 
But  why  any  one,  descendant  or  otherwise,  should 
take  offence  at  the  tender  feeling  and  beauty  of 
the  poet's  mention  of  her  is  as  much  a  mystery 
as  her  life. 

It  was  in  the  fields  about  this  homestead  that 
fame  first  found  our  poet.  For  there  he  bought, 
from  the  pack  of  a  traveling  peddler,  the  first 
copy  of  Burns  that  he  had  ever  seen,  and  that 
snatched  him  away  from  hard  realities  into  a 
land  of  music  ;  and  here  the  mail-man  brought 
him  the  copy  of  that  paper  containing  his  earli 
est  poem,  one  whose  subject  was  the  presence  of 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.  349 

the  Deity  in  the  still  small  whisper  in  the  soul ; 
and  here  Garrison  came  with  the  words  of  praise 
and  found  him  in  the  furrow,  and  began  that 
friendship  which  Death  alone  severed,  as  the  two 
fought  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  great  fight  of 
the  century. 

Although  he  had  been  for  some  time  contribu 
ting  to  the  press,  Mr.  Whittier  was  but  twenty- 
three  years  old  when  he  was  thunderstruck  by  a 
request  to  take  the  place  of  Mr.  George  D.  Pren 
tice,  in  editing  The  New  England  Weekly  Review 
for  a  time  ;  of  which  request  he  has  said  that  he 
could  not  have  been  more  astonished  had  he 
been  told  he  was  appointed  Prime  Minister  to  the 
Khan  of  Tartary.  In  1835  and  in  1836  he  was 
elected  to  the  State  Legislature  of  Massachusetts, 
and  he  was  engaged,  during  all  this  period,  in 
active  politics  in  a  manner  that  seems  totally  at 
variance  with  the  possibilities  of  the  singer  of 
sweet  songs  as  we  know  him  to-day.  He  de 
clined  reelection  to  the  Legislature,  upon  being 
appointed  Secretary  to  the  American  Anti-Slav 
ery  Society,  removing  to  Philadelphia,  and  re 
maining  there  two  years,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
the  office  of  The  Pennsylvania  Freeman,  which  he 
edited,  was  sacked  and  burned  by  a  mob. 

Few  men  in  the  world  had  a  closer  acquaintance 
with  this  same  many-headed  monster  than  our 
gentle  poet,  for  he  has  been  followed  by  mobs, 


35°  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

hustled  by  them,  assailed  by  them,  carrying  him 
self  with  defiant  courage  through  them  all ;  and  it 
is  a  tremendous  range  of  experience  that  a  man 
finds,  as  Mr.  Whittier  was  able  to  do,  between 
being  assaulted  by  a  midnight  mob  and  being 
chosen  the  Presidential  Elector  for  a  sovereign 
State. 

After  the  suppression  of  his  paper — this  was  at 
a  time  when  the  Legislature  of  Georgia  had 
offered  a  reward  of  five  thousand  dollars  for  the 
arrest  of  the  editor  of  The  Liberator, — Mr.  Whit- 
tier  sold  the  old  Haverhill  homestead  and  re 
moved  to  Amesbury,  a  lovely  town,  the  descend 
ant  of  Queen  Guinevere's  Almbresbury,  neighbor 
of  Stonehenge  and  old  Sarum,  which  seems  a 
proper  spot  for  him  as  for  a  new  Sir  Galahad ; 
and  from  this  time  he  began  to  send  out  those 
periodical  volumes  of  verses  which  have  won  him 
the  heart  of  the  world.  Here  his  lovely  sister 
Elizabeth,  herself  a  poet,  with  his  mother,  and 
his  Aunt  Mercy — the  three  loved  of  all  "  Snow- 
bound's"  lovers, — brightened  the  home  for  years, 
one  by  one  withdrawing  from  it  at  last  for 
their  long  home,  and  leaving  him  alone,  but  for 
the  subsequent  sweet  companionship  of  his 
nieces,  who  themselves  went  away  in  their  turn 
for  homes  of  their  own. 

The  poet's  dwelling  in  Amesbury  was  exceed 
ingly  simple  and  exquisitely  neat,  the  exterior  of  a 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.  351 

pale  cream  color,  with  many  trees  and  shrubs 
about  it,  while,  within,  one  room  opens  into  an 
other  till  you  reach  the  study  that  should  be 
haunted  by  the  echoes  of  all  sweet  sounds,  for 
here  have  been  written  the  most  of  those  verses 
full  of  the  fitful  music, 

Of  winds  that  out  of  dreamland  blew. 
Here,  in  the  proper  season,  the  flames  of  a  cheer 
ful  fire  dance  upon  the  brass  andirons  of  the  open 
hearth,  in  the  centre  of  a  wall  lined  with  books ; 
water-colors  by  Harry  Fenn  and  Lucy  Larcom 
and  Celia  Thaxter,  together  with  interesting 
prints,  hang  on  the  other  walls,  rivaled,  it  may 
be,  by  the  window  that  looks  down  a  sunny  little 
orchard,  and  by  the  glass-topped  door  through 
which  you  see  the  green  dome  of  Powow  Hill. 
What  worthies  have  been  entertained  in  this  en- 
ticing  place  !  Garrison,  and  Phillips,  and  Hig- 
ginson,  and  Wasson,  and  Emerson,  and  Fields, 
and  Bayard  Taylor,  and  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary, 
and  Gail  Hamilton,  and  Anna  Dickinson,  are  only 
a  few  of  the  names  that  one  first  remembers,  to 
say  nothing  of  countless  sweet  souls,  unknown  to 
any  other  roll  of  fame  than  heaven's,  who  have 
found  the  atmosphere  there  kindred  to  their  own. 
The  people  of  Amesbury,  and  of  the  adjoining 
villages  and  towns,  felt  a  peculiar  ownership  of 
their  poet ;  there  is  scarcely  a  legend  of  all  the 
region  round  which  he  has  not  woven  into  his  song, 


35 2  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

and  the  neighborhood  feel  not  only  as  if  Whittier 
were  their  poet,  but  in  some  way  the  guardian 
spirit,  the  genius  of  the  place  Perhaps  in  his 
stern  and  sweet  life  he  has  been  so,  even  as  much 
as  in  his  song.  "  There  is  no  charge  to  Mr. 
Whittier,"  once  said  a  shopman  of  whom  he  had 
made  a  small  purchase ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that 
the  example  would  have  been  contagious  if  the  in 
dependent  spirit  of  the  poet  would  have  allowed 
it. 

The  Indian  summer  days  of  the  poet's  life  were 
spent  not  all  in  the  places  fcthat  knew  him  of  old. 
The  greater  part  of  the  winter  was  passed  in  Bos 
ton;  a  share  of  the  summer  always  went  to  the 
White  Hills,  of  which  he  was  passionately  fond, 
and  the  remainder  of  the  time  found  him  in  the 
house  of  his  cousins  at  Oak  Knoll,  in  Danvers, 
still  in  his  native  county  of  Essex.  This  is  a 
mansion,  with  its  porches  and  porticoes  and  sur 
rounding  lawns  and  groves,  which  seems  meet  for 
a  poet's  home ;  it  stands  in  spacious  and  secluded 
grounds,  shadowed  by  mighty  oaks,  and  with  that 
woodland  character  which  birds  and  squirrels  and 
rabbits,  darting  in  the  checkered  sunshine,  must 
always  give.  It  is  the  home  of  culture  and  re 
finement,  too,  and  as  full  of  beauty  within  as  with 
out.  Here  many  of  the  later  poems  were  sent 
forth,  and  here  fledglings  had  the  unwarrantable 
impertinence  to  intrude  with  their  callow  manu- 


JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER.  353 

scripts,  and  here  those  pests  of  prominence,  the 
autograph  seekers,  sent  their  requests  by  the  thou 
sands.  But  in  the  early  fall  the  poet  stole  quietly 
back  to  Amesbury,  and  there  awaited  Election 
Day,  a  day  on  which  he  religiously  believed  that 
no  man  has  a  right  to  avoid  his  duty,  and  of  which 
he  always  thought  as  when  he  saw 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hand  conceals 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

What  a  life  he  had  to  look  back  upon,  as  he  sat 
with  his  fame  about  him — what  storms  and  what 
delights,  what  struggle  and  what  victory !  With 
all  the  deep  and  wonderful  humility  of  spirit  that 
he  bore  before  God  and  man,  yet  it  is  doubtful  if 
he  could  have  found  one  day  in  it  that  he  would 
have  changed,  so  far  as  his  own  acts  were  con 
cerned.  It  is  certain  that  no  one  else  could  find  it. 

In  appearance,  Mr.  Whittier  was  to  the  last  as 
upright  in  bearing  as  ever ;  his  eye  was  as  black 
and  burned  with  as  keen  a  fire  as  when  it  flashed 
over  the  Concord  mob,  and  saw  beauty  everywhere 
as  freshly  as  when  he  cried  out  with  the  "  Voices 
of  Freedom  "  and  sang  the  "  Songs  of  Labor  " ;  and 
his  smile  was  the  same  smile  that  won  the  worship 
of  men,  and  of  women,  too,  for  sixty  years  and 


354  JOHN  GREENLEAF   WH1TTIER. 

over.  Now  it  is  with  a  sort  of  tenderness  that 
people  speak  arid  think  of  him  whose  walk  in  life 
ended  September  7,  1892.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  think  that  such  vitality  and  power  and  spirit 
could  ever  cease.  And  indeed,  it  has  not  ceased, 
for  it  has  been  transferred  into  loftier  regions, 
where  his  earthly  songs  are  set  to  the  music  of  the 
morning-stars  as  they  sing  together. 

HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


MRS.  MARGARET  DELAND 


355 


MRS.  MARGARET  DELANO 

MT.    VERNON     STREET,    BOSTON,    AND     KENNEBUNK- 
PORT,    MAINE 

Very  few  houses  suggest  in  a  more  marked  de 
gree  the  tastes  of  those  who  occupy  them,  than  the 
one  in  which  Margaret  Deland  may  be  found  dur 
ing  the  winter  months,  and  until  the  chilly  New 
England  spring  deigns  to  set  forth  a  tempting 
array  of  blossoms.  At  this  signal,  followed  by  a 
general  exodus  in  favor  of  suburban  residences, 
Mrs.  Deland — being  a  Bostonian  only  by  adoption, 
and  therefore  to  be  pardoned  for  seeking  recreation 
at  a  greater  distance  from  home — closes  the  town 
house,  leaving  it  guarded  by  flowers,  to  re-establish 
herself  and  her  household  in  an  attractive  cottage 
at  Kennebunkport,  Maine,  where  her  summers  are 
habitually  passed. 

If  we  are  to  go  in  search  of  the  more  represen 
tative  of  the  two  dwellings,  we  must  turn  our 
steps  in  the  direction  of  Beacon  Hill,  for  the  De- 
lands  yielded  a  number  of  years  ago  to  the  inde 
finable  charm  of  this  time-honored  quarter  of  the 
town,  and  have  come  to  be  considered — like 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  Mrs.  Henry  Whitman, 

357 


358  MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND. 

and  others — as  permanent  members  of  the  little 
colony  in  possession. 

On  turning  into  Mt.  Vernon  Street  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  a  view  that  is  essentially  picturesque 
opens  up,  and  its  separate  features — the  steep 
road,  large  elm-trees,  old-fashioned  residences,  and 
narrow  sidewalks — have  hardly  had  time  to  assert 
themselves,  when  the  objective  point  of  one's  walk 
comes  in  sight.  No.  76  is  the  second  of  two 
houses  on  Mt.  Vernon  Street  that  have  in  turn 
afforded  Mr.  Deland  an  excuse  to  indulge  his  pre 
dilection  for  reconstruction,  the  present  habitation 
being  practically  a  larger  edition  of  one  lower 
down  the  street — in  which  "  John  Ward,  Preach 
er,"  was  written. 

A  glance  at  the  facade  proves  the  felicity  of  a 
friend's  description,  "  It  is  all  windows  and  flow 
ers."  The  chronicler  of  "Old  Garden"  fancies 
and  none  other  is  to  be  associated  with  the  masses 
of  jonquils,  hyacinths,  and  pansies,  whose  notes  of 
color  define  the  unusual  width  of  the  main  win 
dows,  and  are  equally  in  evidence  against  a  back 
ground  of  soft  white  muslin,  used  as  drapery  for 
the  curious  little  bay  window  on  the  second  story. 
A  few  steps  lead  from  the  narrow  sidewalk  to  the 
front  door,  and  a  moment  later  the  visitor  finds 
himself  in  a  drawing-room  of  ample  dimensions, 
reached  by  way  of  a  tiny  vestibule,  and  covering 
every  inch  of  space  on  the  north  or  Mt.  Vernon 


MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND.  359 

Street  side  of  the  house.  The  maid  servant  in  at 
tendance  disappears  in  search  of  her  mistress,  pass 
ing  up  the  curved  white  staircase  with  crimson 
carpeting,  placed  to  the  left,  and  treated  with  due 
regard  for  decorative  effect.  A  happy  blending  of 
comfort  and  luxury  immediately  makes  itself  felt, 
while  a  huge  fire-place  with  a  cord  log  blazing  on 
its  hearth  easily  dominates  all  other  attractions, 
and  finds  its  way  to  the  heart  of  many  an  unaccli- 
mated  stranger. 

Mrs.  Deland  lives  all  over  her  house,  the  differ 
ent  rooms  on  the  first  and  second  floors  being  in 
constant  use,  and  equally  familiar  to  her  friends. 
If  she  has  installed  herself  in  the  sunny  library 
overhead,  or  in  the  salon  opening  off  of  it,  you 
will  as  likely  as  not  be  summoned  to  join  her  in 
one  or  the  other  of  these  pleasant  rooms,  and  will 
find  the  same  simple  yet  luxurious  appointments — 
the  cheery  open  fires,  the  profusion  of  flowers,  the 
tasteful  and  harmonious  decorations — evenly  dis 
tributed  throughout  the  entire  house.  Books  are 
stored  away  in  every  conceivable  receptacle,  Mr. 
Deland' s  taste  in  this  matter,  as  indeed  in  most 
others,  being  as  fully  represented  as  that  of  his 
wife.  One  even  runs  across  a  set  of  book- shelves 
fitted  into  the  wall  at  the  head  of  the  staircase, 
where  the  old-fashioned  niche  once  held  its  place. 
But  although  they  are  found  to  exist  in  such  quan 
tities,  neither  books  nor  periodicals  are  allowed  to 


3<5o  MRS.  MARGARET  DELAND. 

become  an  annoyance  by  being  left  about  to  crowd 
out  other  things  and  to  collect  dust.  The  exquis 
ite  neatness  and  order  that  prevail  speak  volumes 
for  the  refinement  and  managerial  capacity  of  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  An  authoress  is  supposedly 
the  least  practical  of  persons ;  and  yet  in  this  one 
instance  an  exception  must  be  noted,  for  there  are 
countless  signs  that  the  hand  at  the  helm  is  both 
experienced  and  sure. 

Mrs.  Deland  is  of  Scottish  ancestry  on  her 
father's  side  of  the  family,  and,  as  a  lineal  descen 
dant  of  John  of  Gaunt,  may  be  said  to  have  sprung 
from  the  house  of  Lancaster.  There  is  about  her 
something  of  the  freedom  and  indomitable  strength 
of  the  Highlands — a  look  in  the  clear  blue  eye,  a 
warmth  of  coloring,  a  cut  of  features,  and,  above 
all,  a  certain  unruly  assertiveness  of  stray  locks  of 
hair — that  awakens  memories  of  the  heather  and 
of  the  wind  upon  the  hills,  coming  heavily  laden 
with  the  odor  of  peat  and  fresh  from  its  contact 
with  some  neighboring  loch.  And,  again,  there 
are  moments  when  other  and  quite  different  pic 
tures  suggest  themselves,  as  the  outcome  of  a 
still  more  subtle  relation  to  the  fragrant  treas 
ures  of  her  garden — the  delicate  mignonette,  the 
open-hearted  June  rose  —  with  just  a  touch  of 
passion  in  its  veins  to  make  it  kin  with  all  the 
world  —  and  the  sensitive  convolvulus,  lifting 
its  face  heavenward  to  greet  the  light,  but 


MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND.  361 

robbed  of  aspirations  when  the  shadows  settle  into 
gloom.  , 

The  strong  love  of  flowers  finds  its  expression 
in  a  number  of  ways,  and  it  seems  extraordinary 
that  a  success  which  is  seldom  achieved  by  those 
who  live  in  town  should  crown  the  efforts  of  one 
who  apparently  has  but  to  touch  a  plant  to  make 
it  live.  A  little  fig-tree — the  most  notable  of  her 
triumphs,  for  it,  too,  was  planted  and  raised  within 
doors — lifts  its  branches  and  bears  fruit  as  the 
central  attraction  of  a  group  of  tropical  plants 
that  flourish  near  the  casement  of  the  dining-room 
window.  An  India-rubber  plant  that  is  fast  as 
suming  proportions  which  threaten  its  banishment, 
spreads  its  glossy  leaves  in  the  middle  of  the  libra 
ry,  and,  overladen  as  it  is,  one  cannot  fail  to  ob 
serve  that  the  broad  ledge  of  the  window  in  the 
rear  was  arranged  with  a  special  view  to  the  well- 
being  of  the  various  blooms  seen  thereon,  and  thus 
given  the  full  benefit  of  the  sunshine. 

At  the  close  of  the  winter  Mrs.  Deland  has  a 
sale  of  flowers  in  aid  of  some  good  cause,  and  also 
for  the  purpose  of  demonstrating  that  the  cultiva 
tion  of  such  plants  as  are  raised  under  her  roof, 
with  no  other  care  than  that  given  from  out  of  her 
own  busy  life,  might  be  made  to  serve  many  a  gen 
tlewoman  of  reduced  circumstances  as  a  means  of 
support.  During  the  weeks  that  precede  the  sale, 
the  house  is  ablaze  with  daffodils,  and  one  leaves 


3^2  MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND. 

the  snow  and  ice  without,  to  enter  on  a  scene  more 
suggestive  of  Florida  than  of  Massachusetts. 

A  wide  diversity  of  interests  draws  very  differ 
ent  kinds  of  people  under  this  roof,  for  the  sympa 
thies  of  those  who  live  under  it  are  of  extensive 
range,  and  their  hospitality  is  without  limit. 
There  are  the  purely  social  functions,  placing  in 
touch  representative  members  of  the  world  of 
fashion  and  those  whose  gifts  or  strong  individual 
ity  have  lifted  them  out  of  the  more  conventional 
lines  of  thought  and  action.  Mr.  Deland,  as  an 
authority  on  football  and  the  inventor  of  strategic 
moves  which  have  materially  strengthened  Har 
vard's  game,  also  gathers  about  him  serious  ama 
teurs  in  outdoor  sports,  and  is  ever  ready  to  pro 
long  the  pleasures  of  the  post-prandial  cigar  by 
enthusiastic  discussion  of  moot  points. 

Meetings  in  the  interests  of  charitable  organi 
zations,  civic  matters,  and  all  stirring  questions  of 
the  day,  make  their  demands  on  the  time  of  a  hos 
tess  whose  tact  and  responsiveness  are  unfailing. 
When  some  interest  of  an  exclusively  feminine 
nature  remains  to  be  dealt  with,  or  that  bugbear  of 
the  male  mind,  a  ladies'  luncheon-party  is  in  order, 
the  genial  host  escapes  to  some  such  favorite  haunt 
as  the  St.  Botolph  or  the  Tavern  Club,  leaving  an 
almost  startling  substitute  in  the  shape  of  a  life- 
size  portrait  by  the  well-known  Boston  artist,  Miss 
S.  G.  Putnam,  to  smile  a  welcome  in  his  stead. 


MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND.  363 

The  portrait  and  the  little  bay-window  first  seen 
from  the  outside  are  the  most  conspicuous  features 
of  the  upper  salon.  It  is  from  this  window  that  a 
view  of  the  sunset  and  of  the  distant  river  may  be 
enjoyed;  and  in  looking  up  and  down  the  street 
one  cannot  fail  to  observe  the  fine  old  mansions  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  set  back  a  consider 
able  distance  from  the  street,  and  with  enough 
ground  round  about  them  to  include  in  their  sur 
roundings  old-fashioned  grass-plots  and  flowering 
shrubs  belonging  to  the  past  century.  In  presid 
ing  at  her  table  Mrs.  Deland  does  the  honors  with 
cordial  interest  in  those  grouped  about  her,  and 
while  taking  full  part  in  the  conversation,  always 
contrives  to  draw  out  others,  rather  than  to  permit 
her  individual  views  to  be  drawn  upon. 

As  one  of  the  first  to  introduce  the  use  of  the 
chafing-dish,  her  experiments  in  this  direction 
must  be  quoted  as  unique,  not  only  because  of 
their  most  excellent  results,  but  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  everything  that  has  to  be  done  is  so  dain 
tily  and  gracefully  accomplished.  It  is  simply  as 
tonishing  how  she  continues  to  hold  her  place  in 
the  general  conversation,  while  quietly  mixing  and 
adding  the  ingredients  out  of  which  some  particu 
larly  delicious  plat  is  to  evolve.  Everything  has 
been  measured  out  in  advance  and  stands  in  readi 
ness.  This  bit  of  Venetian  glass,  whose  soft  col 
ors  are  intensified  by  the  sunlight  playing  about 


364  MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND. 

it,  holds  just  the  proper  quantity  of  cream;  that 
small  jug — an  infinitesimal  specimen  of  yellow  pot 
tery — contains  but  a  spoonful  of  some  dark  liquid, 
as  to  whose  mission  the  uninitiated  may  not  guess. 
It  is  the  very  poetry  of  cooking,  and  it  was  hardly 
in  the  nature  of  a  surprise  when  a  guest  whose 
travels  had  extended  through  the  East  gravely  as 
sured  Mrs.  Deland,  on  partaking  of  a  preparation 
which  had  served  as  the/z'A:<?  de  resistance  of  the 
occasion,  that  its  name  as  translated  from  the  Per 
sian  could  only  be  explained  by  the  significant 
phrase, — "  The  Sultan  faints  with  delight  "  ! 

As  an  author  Mrs.  Deland  fully  recognizes  the 
importance  of  systematizing  her  work,  therefore 
she  has  long  made  it  a  custom  to  deny  herself  to 
every  one  during  the  morning  hours  in  order  to 
devote  them  exclusively  to  writing.  The  library, 
whose  attraction  has  already  been  referred  to, 
makes  an  ideal  workshop,  and  as  such  deserves  to 
rank  as  far  and  away  the  most  interesting  room  in 
the  house.  It  is  usually  flooded  with  sunshine, 
and  is  always  light,  the  open  fire  contributing  fur 
ther  brightness,  and  bringing  into  requisition  a 
quaint  pair  of  andirons,  shaped  in  the  form  of  two 
revolutionary  soldiers  standing  on  guard. 

The  window,  framing  a  sheet  of  glass  that 
might  well  prove  problematic  to  a  less  capable 
housekeeper,  gives  on  the  rear  of  several  Chest 
nut  Street  houses  whose  old  roofs  and  old  chim- 


MRS.    MARGARET  DELAND.  365 

neys  reach  nearly  to  its  level  and  are  directly  out 
side.  A  faint  twittering  tells  of  the  presence  of 
those  gamins  among  birds,  the  sparrows,  and  a 
closer  search  for  the  little  fellows  reveals  their 
bright  eyes  and  ruffled  feathers,  as  seen  emerg 
ing  from  the  crevices  into  which  they  have  con 
trived  to  squeeze  themselves  in  their  search  for 
shelter  and  warmth. 

There  is  space  beyond,  with  only  the  shifting 
clouds  to  gaze  upon,  and  the  stillness  and  repose 
of  the  spot  speak  well  for  the  writer's  chances  in 
regard  to  the  maintenance  of  moods  and  consecu 
tive  thought.  The  ill-starred  fortunes  of  "  Philip 
and  His  Wife"  were  followed  from  amid  these 
same  peaceful  surroundings,  and  the  commodious 
desk  near  the  window  doubtless  held  manuscript 
sheets  of  that  tale,  as  well  as  of  others  more  re 
cently  written.  A  cast  of  Mr.  Deland's  hand  is 
suspended  from  one  side  of  the  desk,  and  his 
share  in  the  possession  of  the  room  is  indicated  by 
a  central  writing-table  with  telephone  attachment. 
If  he  chances  to  look  up  while  transacting  such 
business  as  invades  the  home,  he  will  meet  with 
the  gentle  face  of  one  of  Lucca  della  Robia's  an 
gels,  or  his  eyes  may  wander  from  this  relief,  and 
the  mantelpiece  against  which  it  is  placed,  to  a 
large  photograph  of  Boston,  and  a  number  of  well- 
selected  pictures  covering  the  walls. 

Mrs.  Deland's  first  productions  were  in  verse, 


366  MRS.   MARGARET  DEL  AND. 

and  an  idea  as  to  their  spontaneity  may  be  gath 
ered  from  the  fact  that  several  of  the  poems  which 
appeared  under  the  title  of  "  In  An  Old  Garden  " 
were  originally  jotted  down  upon  the  leaves  of  a 
market-book,  to  be  left  in  the  hands  of  a  friend 
whose  sympathy  and  belief  awakened  the  first 
sense  of  power,  and  to  whom  the  volume  was  dedi 
cated.  One  of  these  prosaic  bits  of  ruled  paper  is 
still  in  existence.  It  bears  the  penciled  words  of 
"The  Clover,"  and,  by  way  of  illustration,  a  grace 
ful  spray  of  the  flower,  suggestively  traced  over 
all,  as  if  thrown  upon  the  page. 

When  the  Delands  first  went  to  Kennebunk- 
port,  it  was  a  little  fishing  village  of  the  most 
primitive  kind,  and  life  there,  in  the  summer  time, 
was  refreshingly  simple  and  unconstrained.  A 
cottage  was  selected  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
river,  and  Mr.  Deland's  yacht,  with  its  picturesque 
Venetian-red  sails,  became  a  feature  of  the  scene. 
A  disused  barn,  in  a  nook  among  the  hills,  was 
found  to  possess  a  charming  outlook,  and  was  im 
mediately  turned  into  a  study.  In  this  retreat 
"  Sidney  "  was  written.  The  glory  of  the  garden 
proved  a  thing  to  be  remembered,  and  its  mistress 
was  never  happier  than  when  delving  among  her 
treasures.  Kennebunkport  has  grown  into  a  pop 
ular  summer  resort,  with  its  hordes  of  transient 
visitors,  its  countless  hotels  and  boarding-houses; 
but  the  Delands  pass  their  days  in  much  the  same 


MRS.   MARGARET  DELAND.  367 

fashion  as  when  the  pleasures  of  the  river  and  the 
charm  of  the  surrounding  country  seemed  to  be 
long  to  them  alone. 

That  our  authoress  still  counts  her  garden  the 
most  fascinating  spot  on  earth,  may  be  gathered 
from  her  own  words  : — "  I  am  rather  fond  of  rising 
at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  of  going  out  to 
weed  when  every  blade  of  grass  and  every  leaf  is 
beaded  with  dew;  and  if  the  tide  is  high,  and  the 
sun  comes  shining  over  the  hills  on  the  wide  blue 
river — weeding  is  an  enchanting  occupation." 

LUCIA  PURDY. 


F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 


369 


F.  MARION  CRAWFORD 

AT    SORRENTO 

To  most  people  who  have  travelled  in  the  south 
of  Italy  the  name  of  Sorrento  recalls  one  of  the 
loveliest  places  in  the  world,  which  has  been  so 
often  and  so  well  described  that  it  forms  part  of 
the  mental  picture-gallery  even  of  those  who  have 
never  been  there.  We  all  seem  to  know  the 
cheerful  little  town,  perched  high  above  the  glori 
ous  bay,  and  crowded  with  tourists  during  more 
than  half  the  year.  On  any  bright  morning,  espe 
cially  in  early  spring,  the  tiny  shops  in  the  princi 
pal  street  fairly  swarm  with  strangers,  to  whom 
polite  and  polyglot  dealers  sell  ornaments  of  tor 
toise-shell  and  lava,  silk  sashes  which  will  look 
like  impressionist  rainbows  under  sober  English 
skies,  and  endless  boxes  and  book-shelves  of  inlaid 
woods,  destined  to  fall  to  pieces  under  the  fiery 
breath  of  the  American  furnace.  In  contrast  to 
these  frivolous  travellers  one  may  also  see  the  con 
scientious  Germans,  whose  long-saved  pence  are 
thriftily  expended,  seeking  out  every  possible  and 
impossible  haunt  of  Tasso's  ghost,  with  the  aid  of 
Baedeker,  the  apostle  of  modern  travel. 


372  F.   MARION  CRAWFORD. 

Comparatively  few  of  this  constantly  changing 
company  ever  think  of  taking  the  side  street  which 
runs  between  the  high-road  to  Castellamare  and 
the  sea,  and  it  is  possible  to  spend  some  time  at 
Sorrento  without  having  seen  the  home  of  Marion 
Crawford  at  all.  Follow  this  side  street,  called 
the  "rota,"  because  it  curves  like  the  rim  of  a 
wheel,  and  you  will  find  yourself  presently  going 
back  toward  Naples,  shut  in  on  either  hand  by  the 
high  walls  of  villas  and  gardens,  over  which  the 
orange  and  lemon  and  olive  trees  look  down  into 
the  dusty  lane.  Just  across  the  boundary  line  be 
tween  Sorrento  and  the  village  of  Sant'  Agnello, 
named  after  a  martial  abbot  who  is  said  to  have 
fought  the  Turks,  as  many  a  churchman  did  in  his 
time,  there  stands  a  sedate  old  inn,  the  Cocumella, 
or  Little  Gourd,  which  is  a  complete  contrast  to 
the  two  great  hotels  in  the  larger  town.  It  was 
once  the  property  of  the  Jesuits,  and  the  King 
Ferdinand  of  Naples  who  was  Nelson's  friend,  no 
bly  generous  with  the  belongings  of  others,  after 
the  manner  of  kings,  gave  it,  with  the  adjoining 
church,  to  the  forefather  of  its  present  owner. 
The  house  has  been  an  inn  ever  since,  but  the  title 
to  the  church  has  never  been  settled,  and  the 
building  is  kept  in  repair  by  the  landlord  as  a  sort 
of  courtesy  to  Heaven.  To  this  old-fashioned  inn 
many  Italians  and  quiet  English  families  come  for 
the  season,  and  it  was  in  a  cave  or  grotto  at  the 


F.   MARION  CRAWFORD.  373 

foot  of  its  garden,  which  slopes  toward  the  cliff, 
whence  there  is  a  steep  descent  through  the  rocks 
to  the  sea,  that  Mr.  Crawford  wrote  "  To  Leeward  " 
and  "  Saracinesca,"  before  he  married  and  bought 
his  present  house. 

Beyond  the  Cocumella  lies  the  parish  of  Sant' 
Agnello,  a  village  quite  independent  of  its  more 
fashionable  neighbor,  with  a  post-office  and  a  few 
little  shops  of  its  own.  Keeping  to  the  lane,  at 
about  an  English  mile  from  Sorrento,  a  quaint  old 
Capuchin  monastery  is  reached  on  the  left,  with  a 
small  church  and  a  rambling  almshouse  just  show 
ing  above  a  high  white-washed  wall,  which  runs  on 
to  a  gateway  of  gray  stone  over  which  ivy  hangs 
in  masses,  while  on  each  side  the  name  of  the 
place,  "Villa  Crawford,"  is  carved  in  plain  block 
letters.  The  heavy  dark-green  doors  of  the  gate 
stand  hospitably  open,  and  show  the  straight,  nar 
row  drive,  bordered  with  roses,  geraniums,  and  jas 
mine,  and  leading  down  to  a  square  garden-court, 
not  large  but  full  of  flowers  and  crooked  old  olive 
trees,  over  which  wistaria  has  been  trained  from 
one  to  the  other,  so  that  in  spring  they  are  a  mass 
of  delicate  bloom  and  fragrance.  The  house  is 
very  simple,  built  of  rough  stone  partly  stuccoed, 
as  usual  in  that  part  of  Italy,  and  irregular  in 
shape  because  it  has  been  added  to  from  time  to 
time.  When  Mr.  Crawford  took  it  for  a  season, 
soon  after  his  marriage  to  a  daughter  of  General 


374  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

Berdan,  it  was  in  such  a  very  tumble-down  condi 
tion  that  when  the  fierce  winter  gales  swept  over 
snow-clad  Vesuvius  from  the  northeast,  the  teeth 
of  every  lock  chattered  and  the  carpets  rose  in  bil 
lows  along  the  tiled  floors.  But  the  site  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  on  the  whole  bay,  for  the  house 
stands  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff  which  falls  abruptly 
nearly  two  hundred  feet  to  the  water,  and  since 
Mr.  Crawford  bought  it  he  has  strengthened  it 
with  a  solid  tower  which  can  be  seen  for  some  dis 
tance  out  at  sea. 

The  front  door  opens  directly  upon  a  simple  hall 
where  there  are  plants  in  tubs,  and  a  tall  old  mon 
astery  clock  stands  near  the  door  leading  to  the 
stone  staircase.  The  long  drawing-room  opens 
upon  a  tiled  terrace,  and  is  almost  always  full  of 
sunshine,  the  scent  of  flowers,  and  the  voices  of 
children.  It  cannot  be  said  to  be  furnished  in  the 
modern  style,  but  it  contains  many  objects  which 
could  only  have  been  collected  by  people  having 
both  taste  and  opportunity.  When  in  Constanti 
nople,  many  years  ago,  Mr.  Crawford  was  so  fortu 
nate  as  to  find  an  unusually  large  quantity  of  the 
beautiful  Rhodes  embroidery  formerly  worked  by 
the  women  of  the  Greek  islands  for  the  Knights  of 
Malta,  of  which  none  has  been  made  for  over  a 
hundred  years.  The  pattern  always  consists  of 
Maltese  crosses,  in  every  possible  variety  of  de 
sign,  embroidered  in  dark-red  silk  on  a  coarse  lin- 


F.   MARION  CRAWFORD.  375 

en  ground  which  is  entirely  covered.  Draped  here 
and  there  the  effect  is  exceedingly  rich  and  soft,  as 
well  as  striking,  and  some  fine  old  Persian  armor 
over  the  doors  tells  of  a  visit  which  the  author  and 
his  wife  made  to  the  Caucasus  during  one  of  his 
rare  holidays.  A  magnificent  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Crawford  by  Lenbach,  a  gift  from  the  artist  to  her 
husband,  was  painted  during  a  winter  spent  at  Mu 
nich;  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hangs  a  brilliant 
water-color  drawing  of  a  Moorish  warrior,  by  Vil- 
legas,  presented  by  him  to  Mrs.  Crawford  after  a 
visit  to  his  studio  in  Rome.  On  a  table  placed 
against  the  back  of  an  upright  piano,  among  a 
number  of  more  or  less  curious  and  valuable  ob 
jects,  lies  the  large  gold  medal  of  the  Prix  Mon- 
binne,  the  only  prize  ever  given  by  the  French 
Academy  to  foreign  men-of- letters,  which  was 
awarded  to  Mr.  Crawford  for  the  French  editions 
of  "Zoroaster"  and  "Marzio's  Crucifix." 

A  door  leads  from  one  end  of  the  drawing-room 
into  the  library,  a  high  square  room  completely 
lined  with  old  carved  bookcases  of  black  walnut, 
built  more  than  two  hundred  years  ago  for  Cardi 
nal  Altieri  before  he  became  Pope  Clement  the 
Tenth,  and  of  which  the  wanderings,  down  to  their 
final  sale,  would  be  an  interesting  bit  of  Roman 
social  history.  The  library  is  not  a  workroom,  but 
the  place  where  the  author's  books  are  kept  in 
careful  order,  those  he  needs  at  any  time  being 


37^  ft  MARION  CRAWFORD, 

carried  up  to  his  study  and  brought  down  again 
when  no  longer  wanted.  There  are  about  five 
thousand  volumes,  very  largely  books  of  reference 
and  classics,  partly  collected  by  the  author  him 
self,  and  in  part  inherited  from  his  uncle,  the  late 
Samuel  Ward,  and  his  father-in-law,  General  Ber- 
dan.  The  room  is  so  full  that  one  large  bookcase 
has  been  placed  in  the  middle,  so  that  both  sides 
of  it  are  used.  Besides  the  books  the  library  con 
tains  only  a  writing-table,  three  or  four  chairs,  and 
a  bronzQ  bust  of  Mr.  Ward. 

But  it  is  hard  to  think  of  these  rooms  without 
their  inmates — the  father,  who  is  at  his  best,  as 
he  certainly  is  at  his  happiest,  in  his  own  house, 
the  beautiful  and  gracious  mother,  and  the  four 
strikingly  handsome  children,  with  their  healthy 
simplicity  and  unconsciousness  which  speak  of  that 
ideal  home  life  which  is  the  author's  highest  for 
tune.  The  eldest  child  is  a  girl  of  twelve,  "  as 
fair  as  wheat,"  with  thoughtful  eyes;  next  comes 
a  boy  two  years  younger,  much  darker  in  coloring, 
and  with  a  face  already  full  of  expression;  and 
last  a  pair  of  twins  of  eight,  a  boy  and  a  girl — she 
with  a  nimbus  of  curly  golden  hair  that  makes  her 
look  like  a  saint  by  Fra  Angelico,  and  he  a  singu 
larly  grave  and  sturdy  little  fellow,  whose  present 
energies  are  bent  on  being  a  sailor-man — a  dispo 
sition  which  he  gains  fairly,  for  Mr.  Crawford's 
friends  know  that  if  he  might  have  consulted  only 


F.  MARION  CRAWFORD.  377 

the  natural  bent  of  his  mind,  he  would  have  fol 
lowed  the  sea  as  his  profession.  From  early  boy 
hood  he  has  passed  the  happiest  hours  of  his  lei 
sure  on  board  a  boat,  and  he  is  as  proficient  in  the 
management  of  the  picturesque  but  dangerous  fel- 
luca  as  any  native  skipper  along  the  coast. 

When  he  bought  an  old  New  York  pilot- boat, 
in  1896,  he  was  admitted  to  the  examination  of 
the  Association  of  American  Ship-masters  in  con 
sideration  of  [his  long  experience,  and  he  holds  a 
proper  ship-master's  certificate  authorizing  him  to 
navigate  sailing-vessels  on  the  high  seas.  He 
proved  his  ability  by  navigating  his  little  schooner 
across  the  Atlantic  with  entire  success,  and  with 
out  the  slightest  assistance  from  the  mate  he  took 
with  him.  This  episode  in  a  life  which  has  had 
more  variety  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  most  men 
shows  clearly  the  predominant  trait  of  Marion 
Crawford's  character,  which  is  determination  to 
follow  out  anything  he  undertakes  until  he  knows 
how  it  should  be  done,  even  if  he  has  not  the  time 
to  work  at  it  much  afterward.  Readers  of  "  Casa 
Braccio "  may  have  noticed  that  the  old  cobbler 
who  is  Paul  Griggs's  friend  is  described  with 
touches  which  show  acquaintance  with  his  trade, 
the  fact  being  that  while  the  author  was  preparing 
for  college  in  the  English  village  which  he  de 
scribes  later  in  "A  Tale  of  a  Lonely  Parish,"  he 
made  a  pair  of  shoes  "  to  see  how  it  was  done,"  as 


378  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

he  also  joined  the  local  bell-ringers  to  become 
familiar  with  the  somewhat  complicated  system  of 
peals  and  chimes.  Mere  curiosity  is  like  the 
clutch  of  a  child's  hand,  which  usually  means 
nothing,  and  may  break  what  it  seizes,  but  the  in 
satiable  thirst  for  knowledge  of  all  kinds  is  entirely 
different,  and  has  always  formed  part  of  the  true 
artistic  temperament. 

The  description  of  silver  chiselling  in  "  Marzio's 
Crucifix "  is  the  result  of  actual  experience,  for 
Mr.  Crawford  once  studied  this  branch  of  art,  and 
produced  several  objects  of  considerable  promise. 
In  rebuilding  and  adding  to  his  house  he  has  never 
employed -an  architect,  for  he  is  a  good  practical 
builder  and  stone-mason,  as  well  as  a  creditable 
mathematician,  and  his  foreman  in  all  such  work 
is  a  clever  laborer  who  can  neither  read  nor  write. 
Like  many  left-handed  men,  he  is  skilful  in  the 
use  of  tools,  and  his  mechanical  capacity  was  tested 
recently  when,  having  taken  out  a  complete  sys 
tem  of  American  plumbing,  including  a  kitchen 
boiler,  he  could  find  no  workmen  who  understood 
such  appliances,  and  so  put  them  all  in  himself, 
with  the  help  of  two  or  three  plumbers  whose 
knowledge  did  not  extend  beyond  soldering  a  joint. 
When  the  job  was  done  everything  worked  per 
fectly,  to  his  justifiable  satisfaction.  As  he  is  a 
very  fair  classical  scholar  and  an  excellent  linguist, 
he  could  easily  support  himself  as  a  tutor  if  it 


F.  MARION  CRA  WFORD.  379 

were  necessary,   or  he  might  even  attain  to  the 
awful  dignity  of  a  high-class  courier. 

His  study  or  workroom  at  Villa  Crawford  is  on 
the  top  of  the  house,  by  the  tower,  and  opens  upon 
a  flat  roof,  after  the  Italian  fashion.  There  are 
windows  on  three  sides,  as  it  is  often  important  to 
be  able  to  shut  out  the  sun  without  losing  too 
much  light;  the  walls  are  simply  white- washed, 
and  the  floor  is  of  green  and  white  tiles.  In  the 
middle  there  is  a  very  large  table,  with  a  shelf  at 
the  back  on  which  stand  in  a  row  a  number  of  en 
gravings  and  etchings,  most  of  which  were  given 
him  by  his  wife,  prominent  among  them  being 
"The  Knight,  Death,  and  the  Devil,"  by  Diirer, 
mentioned  in  the  beginning  of  "  A  Rose  of  Yes 
terday."  A  small  revolving  bookcase  full  of 
books  of  reference  has  its  place  close  to  his  hand, 
and  his  writing  chair  is  of  the  most  ordinary 
American  pattern.  The  large  plain  brick  fireplace 
projects  into  the  room,  and  on  the  broad  mantel 
shelf  stands  a  replica  of  his  father  Thomas  Craw 
ford's  Peri,  a  winged  figure,  fully  draped,  gazing 
sadly  toward  the  forfeited  paradise.  On  one  wall 
hangs  an  engraving  by  Van  Dalen  after  a  portrait 
of  Giorgione  by  Titian,  of  which  the  original  has 
been  destroyed,  and  on  another  a  large  photograph 
of  Giorgione's  Knight  of  Malta,  and  small  ones  of 
his  pilot-schooner  as  she  looked  when  he  crossed 
the  ocean  in  her,  and  as  she  appears  now,  trans- 


F.  MARION  CRA  WFORD. 

formed  into  the  yacht  Alda,  and  refitted  so  that 
his  wife  and  children  may  accompany  him  on  the 
cruises  which  form  his  usual  vacations.  The 
effect  of  the  room  as  a  whole  is  severe  and  simple, 
but  the  view  from  its  windows  is  most  beautiful 
and  varied.  To  the  south  lie  olive-clad  hills,  with 
white  houses  dotted  here  and  there  among  orange- 
groves,  and  with  the  craggy  mass  of  Monte  Sant' 
Angelo,  rising  higher  than  Vesuvius  itself,  for  a 
background;  westward  one  looks  over  Sant'  Ag- 
nello  and  the  neighboring  townships,  and  to  the 
northeast,  across  the  shining  bay,  the  curved  white 
line  of  Naples  stretches  far  along  the  shore,  while 
Vesuvius  broods  fatefully  over  the  villages  at  its 
feet. 

Mr.  Crawford  is  an  early  riser,  being  usually  at 
his  writing-table  between  six  and  seven  o'clock. 
If  it  is  winter  he  lights  his  own  fire,  and  in  any 
season  begins  the  day,  like  most  people  who  have 
lived  much  in  southern  countries,  with  a  small  cup 
of  black  coffee  and  a  pipe.  About  nine  o'clock  he 
goes  down-stairs  to  spend  an  hour  with  his  wife 
and  children,  and  then  returns  to  his  study  and 
works  uninterruptedly  until  luncheon,  which  in 
summer  is  an  early  dinner.  In  warm  weather  the 
household  goes  to  sleep  immediately  after  this 
meal,  to  re-assemble  toward  five  o'clock;  but  the 
author  often  works  straight  through  this  time, 
always,  however,  giving  the  late  afternoon  and 


F.  MARION  CRAWFORD.  381 

evening  to  his  family.  The  common  impression 
that  the  south  of  Italy  is  unbearably  hot  in  sum 
mer  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  guide-books  in  gen 
eral  use  are  written  by  Germans  or  Englishmen, 
whose  blood  boils  at  what  seems  to  us  a  very  tole 
rable  temperature.  Inland  cities  like  Milan  and 
Florence  often  suffer  from  oppressive  heat,  but 
records  show  that  neither  at  Naples  nor  at  Palermo 
does  the  thermometer  mark  so  high  as  in  New 
York,  and  at  Sorrento  it  rarely  goes  above  84°. 
On  Sundays,  after  early  church,  parents  and  chil 
dren  go  off  in  a  boat  to  some  one  of  the  many 
lovely  spots  which  are  to  be  found  among  the  rocks 
along  the  shore,  taking  with  them  fire-wood,  a  ket 
tle,  and  all  that  is  necessary  for  a  "  macaronata," 
or  macaroni  picnic.  The  sailors  do  the  cooking, 
while  the  children  look  on  or  go  in  swimming  with 
their  father,  and  when  the  simple  feast  is  over  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon  is  spent  in  sailing  over  the 
bay,  perhaps  as  far  as  Capri  if  the  breeze  holds. 

While  every  one  acknowledges  Marion  Craw 
ford's  talent  as  a  story-teller,  he  is  sometimes  re 
proached  with  inventing  impossible  situations,  or 
at  least  straining  probability,  which  is  only  anoth 
er  illustration  of  the  old  saying  about  fact  and  fic 
tion,  for  in  each  of  the  cases  usually  referred  to 
he  has  set  down  what  actually  happened.  The 
triple  tragedy  in  "  Greifenstein "  was  a  terrible 
fact  in  a  noble  German  family  before  the  middle 


382  p.  MARION  CRAWFORD. 

of  the  present  century,  and  the  son  of  the  house, 
the  last  of  his  race,  entered  the  Church  and  died  a 
Cardinal.  In  "  Casa  Braccio,"  the  elopement  of 
the  nun  and  the  burning  of  the  substituted  body 
took  place  in  South  America  exactly  as  described, 
and  the  story  was  told  to  the  author  by  a  person 
who  had  met  the  real  Gloria.  The  incident  of 
Don  Teodoro  in  "Taquisara,"  who,  although  not 
ordained,  acted  as  a  priest  for  many  years,  occurred 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Rome,  and  there  have  been 
two  well-known  cases  in  which  priests  kept  the 
secret  of  the  confessional  as  Don  Ippolito  does  in 
"Corleone,"  but  with  the  difference  that  they 
were  both  convicted  of  crimes  which  they  had  not 
committed,  one  being  sent  to  the  mines  of  Siberia, 
the  other  to  a  French  penal  colony. 

The  impression,  quite  generally  entertained, 
that  Mr.  Crawford  throws  off  one  book  after  an 
other  as  fast  as  he  can  write  them  down,  is  based 
upon  a  misapprehension  of  his  method  of  working. 
For  months,  or  even  for  several  years,  a  subject 
is  constantly  in  his  mind,  and  he  spares  no  study 
to  improve  his  rendering  of  it.  Travellers  in 
Arabia,  for  instance,  have  commended  the  "  local 
color"  of  his  "Khaled,"  which,  however,  is  quite 
as  much  due  to  patient  reading  as  to  imagination, 
for  he  has  never  been  there.  The  actual  writing 
of  his  stories  is  done  quickly,  partly  because  few 
authors  have  had  such  large  experience  of  all  the 


F.  MARION  CRAWFORD.  383 

mechanical  work  connected  with  literature.  From 
early  manhood  he  has  been  entirely  dependent  on 
his  own  resources,  and  during  his  two  years'  edi 
torship  of  an  Indian  newspaper  he  practically 
wrote  it  all  every  day,  correcting  the  proof  into 
the  bargain.  After  his  return  to  America,  and 
before  writing  "  Mr.  Isaacs,"  he  supported  himself 
by  any  literary  work  that  he  could  get,  during 
which  time,  by  the  way,  he  was  a  frequent  con 
tributor  to  The  Critic.  The  man  so  often  called 
"a  born  story-teller"  is  also  a  careful  student, 
especially  reverent  of  the  precious  inheritance  of 
our  language,  and  some  of  his  works  are  now  used 
as  class-books  for  the  study  of  modern  English  lit 
erature  throughout  this  country,  a  fact  which  may 
easily  escape  the  knowledge  of  the  novel-reading 
public  which  owes  him  so  much  pleasure. 

Mr.  Crawford  has  made  a  success  at  play-writ 
ing  as  well  as  at  novel  writing.  His  "  In  the  Pal 
ace  of  the  King,"  which  has  been  played  so  suc 
cessfully  by  Miss  Viola  Allen,  was  a  play  before 
he  turned  it  into  a  novel,  and  he  has  recently  writ 
ten  a  drama  founded  on  a  new  version  of  the  story 
of  Francesca  and  Paola,  which  Madame  Sarah 
Bernhardt  has  produced  with  great  success. 

WILLIAM  BOND. 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD 


385 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD 

THE  MAN  OF  AFFAIRS  AND  THE  MAN  OF  LETTERS 

LONG-SUFFERING  prominence,  among  its  numer 
ous  woes,  has  at  times  to  subject  itself  to  snap-shot 
portraiture ;  but  occasionally  a  friendly  and  ama 
teurish  zeal,  seeking  honest  results,  brings  the  per 
son  of  note  to  the  advantage  of  a  long  exposure, 
and  then  perchance  educes  finenesses  and  perso 
nalities  neglected  by  the  swifter  method.  I  should 
like,  if  I  may,  to  use  the  slower  and  truer  means 
in  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Paul  Leicester  Ford,  who  has 
of  late,  by  reason  of  an  unquestioned  reputation, 
been  compelled  to  stand  from  behind  the  vanguard 
of  his  books  and  show  himself  as  a  notability.  In 
contrast  therefore  to  various  pen  views  which  have 
presented  Mr.  Ford  as  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  a 
man,  it  ought  to  be  possible  for  a  friendly  candor 
to  delineate  his  life  and  purposes  without  passing 
just  limitations.  Paraphrasing  his  own  playfully 
bold  title,  I  seek  to  portray  "  The  True  Mr.  Ford," 
entertaining  the  while  that  proportionate  sense  of 
demerit  which  I  am  sure  restrained  him  as  he 
limned  the  outlines  of  Washington. 

The  accrediting  of  unusual  ability  to  heredity 

387 


388  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

and  environment  alone  fails  to  satisfy ;  for  what 
we  most  wish  to  understand  is  the  actual  and  not 
the  probable  resultant.  Nevertheless  it  will  never 
do  to  omit  from  the  reckoning  Mr.  Ford's  innate 
tendencies  and  the  slowly  formed  impulses  made 
upon  him  and  upon  his  equally  remarkable  brother, 
Worthington  Chauncey  Ford,  by  their  father's 
superb  library,  of  which  in  a  manner,  but  in  a  dif 
ferent  degree,  each  is  the  incarnation.  Puritan 
stock,  absolutely  pure,  except  where  there  is  a 
crossing  of  the  Huguenot  on  the  paternal  side — 
there  is  no  choicer  graft  than  that — a  temperament 
stimulated  by  the  nervous  excitations  of  the  cos 
mopolitan  life  of  New  York,  and  a  scholarship 
sound  yet  unacademic  and  not  held  by  the  leash  of 
college  traditions — these,  as  I  see  them,  are  the 
factors,  any  of  which  taken  from  him  would  have 
made  Mr.  Ford  quite  other  than  he  is.  Yet  the 
aggregate  of  such  components  most  assuredly  does 
not  constitute  his  genius;  for  genius  as  distin 
guished  from  marked  ability  he  undoubtedly  pos 
sesses.  It  has  before  now  been  told  that  on  his 
mother's  side  he  is  the  grandson  of  Professor  Fow 
ler  of  Amherst,  the  great-grandson  of  Noah  Web 
ster,  and  the  grandson  four  times  removed  of  Pres 
ident  Charles  Chauncey  of  Harvard  College,  and 
of  Governor  Bradford ;  and  from  this  last  worthy 
ancestor  he  comes  honestly  by  his  fondness  for  a 
manuscript.  This  is  good  blood  to  run  through 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD.  389 

one's  veins,  even  in  a  remote  generation.  There 
is  an  added  vigor  from  his  mother,  who,  early  ex 
panded  under  favoring  influences,  had  the  native 
mental  strength  and  moral  sureness  of  a  cultivated 
New  Engand  woman.  His  father,  the  late  Gordon 
L.  Ford,  though  known  and  honored  as  a  success 
ful  lawyer  and  man  of  affairs,  was,  to  those  who 
had  the  closer  knowledge  of  him,  an  idealist  of  the 
type  which  does  not  readily  pursue  other  than  the 
highest  ends,  and  which  cannot  throw  open  the 
reserves  of  its  nature. 

There  is  then  in  his  make-up  a  curious  balance 
of  conservative  tendencies  and  a  due  share  of  re 
monstrance  and  even  of  headlong  radicalism.  To 
a  superb  mental  equipment  is  to  be  added  a  phys 
ical  constitution  strong  enough  to  have  pulled  him 
through  an  infancy  and  childhood  full  of  peril  and 
no  doubt  of  suffering,  and  to  have  landed  him  in 
manhood's  estate  with  a  vivacious  and  courageous 
disposition,  a  master  of  his  fate.  He  is  also  en 
dowed  with  an  almost  superhuman  capacity  for 
work.  It  may  be  that,  conscious  of  hidden  frail 
ties  of  tenure,  the  impulse  is  within  him  to  burn 
his  candle  of  life  fiercely ;  but  I  am  disposed  the 
rather  to  think  that  in  his  case  this  use  of  energy 
is  mainly  a  question  of  superior  "  horse  power  " — 
he  is  able  to  work  more  than  most  of  us,  and  there 
fore  he  does.  But  great  capacity  does  not  always 
so  express  itself;  and  it  would  be  unjust,  unless 


39°  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD, 

one  chose  to  regard  Mr.  Ford  as  precocious  in 
youth  and  phenomenal  at  all  times,  not  to  recog 
nize  that  the  fate  which  distributes  gifts  to  mor 
tals  gave  him  Opportunity.  Free,  if  he  so  wished, 
to  follow  his  own  devices  and  to  take  the  joys  of 
life  without  undue  exertion,  he  was  wise  enough, 
at  an  age  when  most  youth  sows  an  unprofitable 
crop  on  stony  ground,  to  plant  in  the  fertile  fur 
rows  which  a  farseeing  father  had  sedulously  made 
ready  for  him.  As  for  education  and  the  disci 
pline  of  school  life,  so  wholesome  for  the  most  of 
us,  there  was  for  him  literally  none  of  it.  His 
nursery,  his  primary  school,  and  his  college  all 
may  be  found  within  the  four  walls  of  his  father's 
library.  The  books  held  within  the  quiet  resi 
dence  in  Clark  Street,  Brooklyn,  must  now  be 
nearer  100,000  than  50,000  in  number.  They  fill 
all  parts  of  the  large  house  fashioned  in  the  man 
ner  of  fifty  years  ago,  but  their  headquarters  are  in 
the  library  proper,  a  room  at  the  rear,  over  fifty 
feet  square,  and  reached  from  the  main  floor  by  a 
short  flight  of  steps.  This  room  is  well  but  not 
glaringly  lighted  by  a  lantern  at  the  top,  while  the 
sides,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  small  windows 
of  no  great  utility  owing  to  the  tallness  of  sur 
rounding  buildings,  are  fully  taken  up  with  books 
to  the  height  of  eight  feet.  The  floor  is  covered 
in  part  by  large  rugs ;  the  walls  and  ceilings  are 
of  serious  tint;  a  fireplace  is  opposite  the  en- 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD.  391 

trance;  while  sofas  of  most  dissimilar  pattern  and 
meant  seemingly  to  hold  any  burden  but  a  human 
one,  are  placed  "disposedly"  about;  chairs,  easy 
but  not  seductive,  are  in  plenty,  but  like  the  sofas 
give  notice  that  here  is  a  government  not  of  men 
but  of  books — here  there  is  no  library  built  for  the 
lust  of  the  flesh  and  pride  of  the  eye,  but  for  books 
and  for  those  who  use  them.  I  cannot  suppose 
that  those  smitten  of  bibliophily  would  thrill  over 
the  Ford  library,  since  it  exists  for  the  practical 
and  virile,  although  it  is,  in  parts,  exceedingly 
choice.  Roughly  classified  to  suit  the  easy  memo 
ries  of  the  owners,  it  presents  an  appearance  ur 
bane  and  unprecise  rather  than  military  and  com 
manding.  At  irregular  intervals  loom  huge  masses 
of  books,  pamphlets,  papers,  proof-sheets,  and  en 
gravings  in  cataclysmic  disorder  and  apparently 
suspended  in  mid-air  like  the  coffin  of  the  False 
Prophet,  but  in  fact  resting  on  tables  well  hidden 
by  the  superincumbent  piles.  In  this  room  the 
father  slowly  accumulated  this  priceless  treasure 
mostly  illustrative  of  American  history  and  its 
adjuncts,  thereby  gratifying  his  own  accurate 
tastes  and  hoping,  as  we  may  suppose,  that  his 
children  would  ultimately  profit  by  his  foresight. 
Nor  was  he  disappointed;  for  the  two  brothers, 
Paul  and  Worthington,  drew  their  milk,  histori 
cally  speaking,  from  this  exhaustless  fount,  and  it 
is  thus  impossible  to  disconnect  the  labors  and 


392  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

successes  of  these  two  unusual  men  from  their 
association  with  this  library.  Not  in  books  alone, 
but  in  many  choice  autograph  letters,  rare  por 
traits  and  plates,  and  much  unpublished  material 
consists  the  value  of  the  collection. 

One  who  did  not  know  Mr.  Ford,  on  entering 
the  room  and  beholding  for  the  first  time  the  Sier 
ras  of  books,  fronted  by  foot-hills  and  drumlins  of 
unfinished  work,  sale  catalogues,  letters,  and  other 
detritus,  might  well  suppose  him  to  be  the  most 
careless  of  mortals.  This  would  be  to  misjudge; 
for  though  no  one  else  could  fathom  his  methods, 
Mr.  Ford  turns  readily  to  what  he  wants,  and 
given  the  right  haystack,  finds  his  needle  with 
astonishing  ease.  Like  many  another  man  of 
ability,  he  does  not  enslave  himself  to  organiza 
tion,  but  uses  method  only  in  proportion  to  direct 
needs. 

The  secret  of  his  astonishing  capacity  for  work 
and  production  is  not  far  to  seek.  He  is  by  na 
ture  and  by  predilection  a  man  of  affairs  and  of 
business.  The  accident  of  life  has  directed  his 
energies  toward  books  and  letters.  But  he  is  not 
a  literary  man  in  the  sense  that  he  is  to  be  identi 
fied  with  a  class,  for  in  the  best  sense  he  is  d£- 
classt.  So  far  as  there  may  be  genius  burning 
within  him,  it  must  express  itself  during  moments 
of  inspiration ;  but  the  between-times  are  not  spent 
in  dreams  or  vain  imaginings,  but  in  an  almost  re- 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD.  393 

lentless  absorption  in  some  historical  or  editorial 
task,  requiring  fidelity  and  energy  rather  than  fit 
ful  moods. 

I  do  not  now  discern  what  at  one  time  I  feared 
that  I  might — carelessness,  or  an  effect  of  haste, 
in  the  large  mass  of  results  to  which  this  author 
has  already  put  his  name.  On  the  contrary  it 
seems  to  me  that  more  and  more  he  tends  toward 
painstaking  care,  and  there  is  good  reason  to  pre 
dict  that  his  best  and  possibly  most  brilliant  work 
is  yet  to  come.  Regarding  one  work,  since  pub 
lished,  he  has  told  me  that,  having  already  pushed 
a  long  way  toward  the  end  and  finding  that  the 
affair  went  slowly,  of  a  sudden  it  was  borne  in 
upon  him  that  he  was  on  the  wrong  track.  In  a 
moment  he  swept  30,000  words  of  manuscript  into 
his  basket  and  started  anew  and  with  a  good  heart. 
A  great  organizing  capacity,  a  power  of  maintained 
effort,  and  a  willingness  to  take  unstinted  trouble, 
render  the  large  volume  of  his  achievements  as 
acceptable  as  the  small  bulk  of  another's  work. 
Faults  I  think  Mr.  Ford  has  had,  and  still  has, 
but  it  would  be  proper  even  for  the  nicest  criti 
cism  to  discover  a  sure  advance  in  the  quality  of 
his  style.  Personally  I  have  never  been  able  to 
explain  satisfactorily  the  success  of  his  most  pop 
ular  book,  "The  Honorable  Peter  Stirling."  It  is 
almost  without  a  "  literary "  quip  or  term  or 
phrase ;  the  politics  present  a  stiff  dose  to  novel 


394  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

readers,  a  class  too  satiated  with  an  unvarying  diet 
not  to  crave  spicier  viands  than  those  served  to 
them  by  the  love  motive  of  Mr.  Ford's  story. 
Why  then  has  this  proved  to  be  one  of  the  three 
stories  of  the  past  two  years  and  more  ?  I  do  not 
know,  unless  it  be  that  Mr.  Ford,  who  is  no  ego 
tist  and  not  exclusive  in  his  sympathies,  reflects  in 
this  book  a  genuine  if  unsentimental  faith  in  hu 
man  nature  of  every  degree.  To  such  a  faith  hu 
manity  is  always  responsive.  He  did  not  come 
crying  in  the  wilderness  with  acrimony  and  fanati 
cism,  but  gave  the  prototype  of  a  gentleman  of  the 
heart  and  not  of  long  ancestry — a  pure  man  in  all 
things,  even  in  metropolitan  politics,  who  stamped 
on  evil,  not  shrank  from  it.  There  was  a  cry  for 
a  politician  who  could  be  something  to  the  "  boys  " 
besides  a  prig,  and  Mr.  Ford,  haud  inexpertusy 
produced  him.  It  was  bread  and  not  a  stone,  and 
the  democracy,  rampant  yet  not  unclean,  heard  him 
gladly. 

I  have  no  purpose  here  to  rehearse  the  merits 
of  Mr.  Ford's  various  writings.  Current  criticism 
certainly  has  him  in  its  eye  as  a  conspicuous  fig 
ure,  and  if  he  meets  opposition  he  is  not  likely  to 
suffer  neglect.  Meanwhile  another  source  of  his 
success  and  of  his  popularity  seems  to  me  to  lie 
in  his  perfect  intellectual  and  moral  normality. 
Great  as  is  the  volume  of  his  work,  it  is  sound 
throughout.  He  strikes  no  shrill  or  wayward 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD.  395 

note;  the  social  order  is  always  considered.  He 
deals  with  the  sound  fruit  of  human  life,  and  as 
sumes  that  good  nature,  honest  love,  money- mak 
ing,  clean  and  enjoyable  existence  are  not  only 
possibilities  but  everyday  realities.  The  success 
of  "  The  Story  of  an  Untold  Love "  shows  how 
ready  people  are  for  an  observance  of  all  the  com 
mandments  rather  than  for  a  breach  of  one.  It  is 
with  novels  as  with  plays — cleanliness  "  goes. " 

Mr.  Ford's  large  abilities,  aided  by  fortunate  in 
heritance,  have  been  used  not  for  the  ends  of  mere 
scholarship  and  to  humor  preciosity  and  a  love  of 
what  is  fantastic  and  occasional,  but  to  recognize 
common  wants  and  aspirations;  yet  at  the  same 
time  he  evinces  an  idealism  tempered  by  no  little 
terrestrial  wisdom  and  experience.  Imagination 
plays  a  larger  part  in  his  work — and  I  am  here 
speaking  of  his  creative  work — than  appears  at 
first  sight.  In  "  Peter  Stirling  "  he  has  managed 
to  give  to  an  immense  metropolitan  life  an  effect 
of  homogeneity  and  interrelation.  The  large  and 
evanescent  effects  of  a  great  city  are  tempting 
themes,  but  those  who  try  to  catch  and  hold  the 
impression  for  the  uses  of  a  novel  seldom  succeed 
in  giving  more  than  fine  details.  Our  genre  paint 
ers  of  fiction  have  been  admirable  in  this  matter: 
but  to  make  one  pattern  of  the  huge  confusion  re 
quires  a  knowledge  vouchsafed  only  to  him  who 
has  acquired  by  daily  contact  the  largest  and  most 


396  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

vital  experiences.  The  immensity  of  financial 
transactions,  the  intricate  shrewdness  of  politi 
cians,  aside  from  their  corruptions,  the  nice 
checks  and  balances  of  a  higher  social  life  must 
necessarily  escape  the  eye  of  the  literary  artist 
mainly  because  they  lie  beyond  his  ken. 

Cerebrally  Mr.  Ford  is  multiparous.  He  can 
be  busy  with  a  play,  a  story,  a  biography,  and  with 
editing  some  historical  work  during  the  same  in 
terval  of  time — the  real  marvel  of  it  all  being  that, 
when  these  come  to  publication,  the  world,  which 
is  said  to  know  clearly  what  it  wants,  accepts  the 
results  with  apparent  satisfaction.  The  power  of 
driving  a  quadriga  of  new  books  around  the  popu 
lar  arena  amid  no  little  applause,  is  due,  I  think, 
to  qualities  not  inherent  in  the  literary  mind  as 
such,  but  implying  a  wider  mental  grasp. 

A  spirit  of  restlessness  takes  hold  upon  Mr. 
Ford  when  he  is  hardest  at  work,  and  he  shifts  at 
pleasure  from  one  to  another  of  his  several  desks 
or  tables.  I  should  imagine  that  the  curiosity 
hunter  of  the  future,  who  might  wish  to  possess 
the  desk  at  which  or  the  chair  on  which  the  author 
of  "  Peter  Stirling  "  sat  when  he  penned  that  book, 
might  comfortably  fill  a  storage-warehouse  van 
with  his  new-found  joys.  Like  most  good  fellows 
who  write,  Mr.  Ford  knows  the  value  of  the  night 
and  often  works  to  best  advantage  when  honest 
folk  have  been  long  abed.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 


PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD.  397 

think  of  the  occasionally  fortunate  person  who 
writes  when  he  wants  to,  not  when  he  must,  though 
I  do  not  think  it  would  be  difficult  for  so  con 
scientious  a  worker  as  Mr.  Ford  to  get  up  friction 
at  shortest  notice  and  as  occasion  might  require. 

While  it  has  been  my  purpose  to  refrain  scrupu 
lously  from  ministering  to  that  curiosity  which 
cares  less  for  the  essential  qualities,  and  the  intel 
lectual  methods  of  a  character  prominently  before 
the  world,  than  for  intrusive  detail  concerning  per 
sonal  caprices  of  taste  and  modes  of  living,  I  shall 
not  be  content  if  I  do  not  say  that  as  a  personality 
Mr.  Ford  is  as  extraordinary  as  in  his  achievement. 
He  is  alive  to  every  issue  of  the  day  and  of  the 
hour.  He  is  brilliant  at  conversation,  and  per 
haps  even  more  brilliant  at  controversy,  for  I.  can 
imagine  no  opposing  argument  so  bristling  with 
facts  as  to  prevent  his  making  a  cavalry  charge  on 
a  whole  table  of  unsympathetic  hearers.  Life  is 
at  its  keenest  pitch  when  one  is  privileged  to  hear 
his  urgent  voice,  with  no  little  command  withal  in 
its  notes,  and  to  see  the  invincible  clearness  and 
dominance  in  his  black-brown  eyes. 

This  spirit  of  fearlessness,  chastened  as  it  is  by 
an  attitude  of  real  toleration  and  open-mindedness, 
colors  Mr.  Ford's  personal  sympathies.  Believing 
as  he  does  that  every  man  must  eventually  work 
out  his  own  salvation  and  that  present  well-being 
may  justly  be  sacrificed  to  future  growth,  it  would 


398  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

be  impossible  for  him  to  choose  any  channel  for 
the  expression  of  his  personal  loyalty  other  than 
that  which  should  strengthen  and  develop.  It  is 
no  strange  thing,  then,  that  those  who  seek  his  aid 
and  counsel  find  him  most  helpful  through  a  power 
of  stimulation  which  enhances  instead  of  detracts 
from  the  sense  of  self-reliance. 

LINDSAY  SWIFT. 


[Since  the  foregoing  was  written,  Mr.  Paul 
Leicester  Ford  has  died,  being  shot  through  the 
heart  by  his  brother  Malcolm,  who  it  is  only 
charitable  to  believe  was  temporarily  insane.  Mr. 
Ford  had  his  best  years  before  him.  He  recently 
married,  moved  into  a  fine  house  built  to  suit  his 
own  needs  near  Central  Park,  and  his  plans  were 
mapped  out  years  in  advance.  He  was  engaged 
on  a  novel  at  the  time  of  his  death,  but  had  done 
so  little  on  it  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  its 
ever  seeing  the  light  of  print. — EDITORS.] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


APR.  18 1925 


- 


TO 


WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


LD  62A-20m-9,'63 
(E709slO)9412A 


